Hunt squeezed the wheel and replayed Yoakum’s heart shot. The ax was up, Yoakum rounding into the room as the blade started down. It looked the same, but felt different.
Or did it?
After a minute, Hunt called his son at home. Seven rings, then music in the background. Hunt tried to hide his fatigue, his unsettled nature. “Hey, Allen.”
“What?”
“Have you had dinner yet?”
“I’m smoking crack and watching porn. What do you care?”
Hunt bit down on his own emotion. “I’ll be home soon. Want me to bring something?”
Outside, Yoakum emerged from the front door of the station. He looked once at Hunt, then raised a hand and made a gun of his fingers. Hunt flicked the lights. Yoakum pulled the trigger, then walked to his own car, as oblivious of the rain as Hunt had been.
“Chinese,” Allen stated, “but bring it in an hour.”
Yoakum opened his door, closed it. They were on opposite sides of the lot, the two of them. Facing each other.
“Why an hour?”
“Because I’m doing stuff.”
Hunt was so tired of the wall between them, the sturdiness of it, the way it grew taller every day.
Yoakum slid into his car and Hunt felt it when the engine fired. “How about a movie after we eat? Like we used to.”
“I don’t think so.”
“Just like that?”
“Yeah. Pretty much.”
Yoakum pulled out of the lot as the kid hung up. Hunt closed his phone and watched him go. They should talk, but Hunt wasn’t ready to do that. Not yet. Not even close. He had an hour. Katherine was only ten minutes away. He thought about it, then started the car. He drove five miles under the speed limit, car sure-footed on the glassy roads, but as the edge of town approached, he found himself driving faster. He wanted to see her, he realized. In that minute, rain beating the road to a river of black mist, he wanted it more than anything else.
His car rose on the hill then dropped, lights slashing down, small houses strung out below. They were well spaced, hints of spilled light and drab color tucked back into the trees; but that’s not how it was at Katherine’s house. Hunt slowed and ducked his head to see through a windshield slightly fogged. Her driveway was empty, her car still impounded, but news trucks lined the street. Nine of them. A dozen.
Hunt’s head turned as he slid past. CNN. FOX. WRAL. A bunch more. He turned into the drive, passing close to the nearest trucks, and doors slid open as news crews spilled out into the storm. They were too savvy to come onto Katherine’s yard, but shouted questions from the street as soon as Hunt stepped into the rain.
Have you found Johnny yet?
Is it true that he’s led you to a serial child murderer?
The cameras were prepped for bad weather. The talent wore slickers but grew quickly damp and smudged. The questions continued. No order. No pretense at decorum. They’d been waiting in the rain, and Hunt was already making for the house.
Detective, is it true that the body count stands at seven?
That was Channel Nine. Hunt knew the guy.
Is Alyssa Merrimon among the dead?
Louder.
Detective? Detective?
The questions came faster, shouted through the downpour. Hunt turned his back. Katherine answered on the second knock, small and pale and beautiful.
Mrs. Merrimon-
A flurry. Hunt put himself between her and the cameras. Her smile was not as forced as Hunt feared it might be. “May I come in?” he asked.
She let him in, closed the door. “Johnny?”
“Not yet.”
She stepped aside and Hunt shrugged off his wet coat. Only one light burned in the house. She cracked a curtain and peered out. A cup of coffee sat cold on the small table by the sofa. “Is it true?” She showed one dark eye, then looked back outside. “What they’re saying?”
“What are they saying?”
“That you found a mass grave. That you would never have found it without Johnny.”
“It’s true.”
“I can’t bear to ask.”
“We have no reason to believe that Alyssa’s body is there. But…”
“But what?” She turned from the window, eyes fragile, chin tilted.
“We’ve not exhumed all of the bodies yet. The rain forced us to stop.”
“So, tomorrow?”
“Tomorrow, we’ll see.”
She wrapped her arms around herself. “Can I offer you some coffee? Or tea? I don’t have anything hard.”
“Coffee would be great.” She sounded terrible, Hunt thought, but was keeping it together better than he’d hoped she might. “I only have a few minutes.”
“Coffee.” She turned.
“Thank you, Katherine.”
She poured coffee into a mug and handed it to him. “So there’s nothing? No word at all?”
She was asking about Johnny. “No,” he said. “I’m sorry.” She looked at the window and at the storm beyond. Then she sat on the sofa and Hunt sat next to her. “He’s a tough kid,” Hunt said. “We’re looking.”
“Can’t you do more? Anything? An Amber Alert?”
“Those are never used unless there’s clear evidence of an abduction, and we don’t believe he’s been abducted. All evidence is that he’s out on his own. Somewhere. Given his past behavior…”
She closed her eyes, beat fists on her thighs. “Johnny…” She shook her head. “Damn it, Johnny. Where are you?”
“He’s smart, Katherine. He’ll be okay. We’ll find him.”
When she opened her eyes, her face was glass, and Hunt could tell that she was moving the conversation forward. “Ken has come three times today.”
Hunt hid his sudden worry. “I thought he’d moved on. He said as much.”
“That’s not what Ken Holloway does. If he told you that, he was lying.”
“Threats?” Hunt asked.
“He rattled the door, whispered a few ugly things.”
“Did he make any threats?” Hunt pushed. He could charge Holloway for communicating threats. It would go well with the obstruction charge. They were small charges for a man like Holloway, but they would get him locked up, if only for a little while. They would keep him away from Katherine.
“Can we just sit?” She asked. “Can we just sit in the quiet?”
Hunt let it go, the anger and the concern. “Sure,” he said, and they sat as his coffee cooled, and as the news crews gave up and climbed back into the vans. After a moment, Hunt noticed that she was clutching something in her hands, pressing her palms together and squeezing her hands between her legs.
“I was in Johnny’s room earlier today. You know…”
She trailed off and Hunt could see her there, touching the boy’s things, working hard to suppress the fear and doubt.
“I found these.” She unfolded her hands and Hunt saw a stack of his business cards. They were wrinkled, palmed and damp. She looked up, met his eyes. “Nineteen of them.”
A shocking clarity shone in her face and Hunt felt a strange and sudden embarrassment. “I wanted Johnny to know there was someone to call,” Hunt said. “If things got bad.”
She nodded, unsurprised. “After I discovered these, I looked around the house and found all of the ones you’ve given to me. I threw a lot away, I know that, but I still found another dozen.”
“It’s my job,” Hunt said.
The clarity never wavered. “Is it?” Hunt looked away. “You’ve always been there for us.”
“Any good cop would do the same.”
“I don’t think so.” Her shoulder brushed, once, against Hunt’s, and he felt a charge, a blue spark that snapped and stung. “Thank you,” she said, and they sat in the quiet, the two of them, side by side. She drew her legs up, tucked her hands back into her lap and laid her head on his shoulder. Hunt felt the narrowness of her arm pressed against his, the warmth of her skin as cold rain battered the window. “Thank you,” she said again.
And Hunt held himself very still.