Yoakum moved to the front and left Hunt alone in the rain. He risked one more look through the rear window. Hair rose wild from Meechum’s head. He stabbed the keys, then slapped the side of the computer, slapped it again. Hunt did not see the ax until Meechum reached for it. It leaned against the desk, a hickory shaft and a blade that was rusted black except where it gleamed silver along the bit. It came up and Meechum’s face locked, lips back, eyes tight; then the ax came down with a grunt, a crash of plastic, and shattered glass.

The computer.

Damn it.

Hunt dropped from the window, bolted for the door. He tried the knob. Locked. He put his shoulder to the wood, found it flimsy and cheap. The doorjamb splintered under his weight, and he was in the kitchen, linoleum slippery under his muddy feet. A hint of motion through the door to the living room and Hunt’s weapon came up as he entered. “Police! Police, God damn it!”

The computer was staved in at the top, Meechum above it, ax up and frozen as he stared at the drawn pistol. Hunt saw panic in his eyes. “Don’t.” Hunt stepped farther into the room, squared up his line of fire. The room stank of burning plastic.

Meechum shook his head, lizard of a tongue darting out.

“Just put down the ax.” Hunt looked for Yoakum, then heard glass break at the front door.

“Just put it down,” Hunt said.

The man’s face twisted. His chest pumped as black smoke snaked up the chimney. Hunt saw the decision firm up in Meechum’s face, even as motion winked in the door behind him. Hunt saw a flash of metal, Yoakum, gun up, rounding into the room.

The ax head lifted as Meechum’s spine bent.

“No,” Hunt yelled, but it was too late.

Meechum swung the ax, and Yoakum shot him through the heart.

The body dropped facedown, a small twitch in two bent fingers. Hunt crossed to the fireplace and kicked discs away from the flames. Seizing the poker, he dug deeper, spread the flaming plastic out and tried to save what he could. Eventually, Yoakum helped him. Five discs were unscathed, another dozen charred. Ten were ruined beyond hope of recovery.

Hunt stepped back. His shoes were blacked, his throat stinging. He stared at Yoakum, whose face was placid. “Did you have to kill him?” Hunt asked.

Yoakum looked at the body. “He went for you with an ax.”

“He went for the computer.”

Yoakum’s face showed neither apology nor regret. “Bad angle. My view of you was obstructed. I couldn’t see if you had a gun up or not. The ax was coming down as I entered the room. I thought he was going for you.”

“I wish you hadn’t killed him.”

“It was a clean shoot.”

Hunt paused, very still. “I never said it wasn’t.”

“It was clean.” Blood scent rose in the room. Yoakum holstered his weapon, eyes dark and glassy smooth. “Squeaky,” he said, and turned away.

Five minutes later, backup arrived, and with it came the Chief, and the questions, none of which were easy. Cops flooded the house. The storm continued. By sundown, the body was gone, the discs bagged and delivered to the department’s best computer technician. The Chief called Hunt and Yoakum into the kitchen. “One last time. Tell me this is the guy.”

“We think he was associated with Burton Jarvis.”

“Why?”

“Stolen plates. The dead cat from the mall. Johnny Merrimon’s notes-”

“Don’t talk to me about that kid’s notes.”

“His descriptions line up,” Hunt insisted. “Age, height, hair color. We’ve been through this three times.”

“Do it again.”

So he did. Hunt explained everything. The Chief did not interrupt. He barely blinked.

“We saved some of the discs,” Hunt concluded. “The hard drive looks intact. It should tell us more.”

The Chief stared from one man to the next. “I want both of you at the station,” he said. “I want your statements. Beyond that, I don’t want either of you to say a word to anyone about this, not to each other, not to your girlfriends or any other cops-not until I have your statements locked. Are we clear?”

“Yes.”

The Chief pointed at the door. “Statements. Now.”

“I’m ready for a beer,” Yoakum replied. “How about we do statements tomorrow?”

The Chief was not amused. “Statements,” he said. “From both of you. Separately. Then I want you to go home and get some sleep. Tomorrow I need to figure out what to make of this cluster fuck.”

“Cluster fuck,” Yoakum repeated, an edge in is voice.

“What would you call it?” The Chief refused to back down.

“The shoot was clean.”

The Chief put his hands on his hips, thrust out his soft, round jaw. “A man was gunned down in his own living room. It had damn well better be.”

Hunt drove his own car but Yoakum was ordered to ride with a patrolman. “I don’t like the feel of this,” Yoakum had said, but both men understood. The Chief did not want them discussing their statements while they drove. He wanted them unrehearsed and unprepared. Hunt did not see Yoakum when he arrived. He was met at the door by an internal affairs officer named Matthews. He was new to the jurisdiction, so Hunt knew him by sight and reputation only. He was supposedly smart, supposedly a decent guy. He had washed-out eyes and a disapproving mouth; he limped slightly as he led Hunt to an unused conference room. At first, the questions were standard, of the sort asked after any shooting, and if they were longer than usual, more involved, it was because the shooting was fatal. Hunt took it in stride. He’d been through it before.

The questions took an unexpected turn thirty minutes in.

“You and Detective Yoakum are friends, is that right?”

“We’re partners.”

“That answer is nonresponsive, Detective.”

“John Yoakum is my friend.”

“Have you ever seen Detective Yoakum fire his weapon in anger?”

“No. Of course not.”

“Has he ever used excessive force?”

“How much force to apply is a judgment call. Detective Yoakum has always exercised impeccable judgment.”

“In your opinion?”

“Yes.”

“As his friend.”

“As lead detective of major crimes.” Hunt felt heat under his shirt. “As an officer with seventeen years’ experience. Are we finished yet?”

“A few more questions.”

“Get on with it then.”

Matthews drummed the head of a pencil on the table and slouched back in his seat. “Detective Yoakum was in your office earlier today?”

“Yes.”

“What were you discussing?”

Hunt’s patience evaporated. “We’ve had more than a few things to discuss lately.”

Matthews’s lips turned, but the smile did not touch his eyes. “Of course.” The pencil tapped. “Tiffany Shore. The murdered children.” He could have been talking about a pot dealer or a speed trap.

“I’m going to give you exactly one more minute,” Hunt said. “Then I am walking out of here.”

Matthews leaned forward. “While in your office today, did Detective Yoakum say that someone should die for what was done to those children?”

Hunt said nothing.

“Did he say that?”

“I think we’re finished.” Hunt stood.

“You haven’t answered my question.”

Hunt kept his voice tight. “What was or was not said in my office has no bearing on what happened today. Meechum had an ax. Yoakum did what he thought he had to do.”

“Are you sure about that, Detective?” Matthews tipped his chair back against the wall, and Hunt saw that there was no joy on the man’s face. “Think about it.”

Hunt spoke to no one as he left the station. His watch said seven when he stepped out of the station and into pounding rain. He walked, unfeeling, to his car. Inside, in the moist, close air, his hands found the wheel, the ignition. He looked for news crews but saw none. Maybe it was the weather.

Someone heard.

Through his closed office door, someone heard what Yoakum said.