“I just want to talk.”

“I’m done,” Freemantle said.

“How did your daughter die?”

“Jesus, Jack. Shut up.” Johnny’s whisper was fierce. He was here, now, and Jack was going to fuck it all up.

“They say you killed those people.” Jack’s voice was tight. “If you had a good reason, then I won’t worry so much about you killing us.” Jack was ready to bolt. Already he was angled for the door.

Levi Freemantle sat up slowly. His eyes looked even more yellow, his skin like ash. “Killed what people?”

He knew what people. Johnny saw that as plain as day. A wariness moved into the man’s eyes. A new tension took his shoulders. Johnny’s fingers settled on the pistol under his shirt. Freemantle saw the movement, and their eyes met. He remembered the gun. Johnny saw that, too.

Suddenly it all fell away. Freemantle slumped. “They can have me now. Shoot me. I don’t care.”

Johnny’s hand came away from the gun. “Because you’ve buried her.”

“Because she’s gone.”

“How did she die?”

Freemantle pulled a wet envelope from the front pocket of his pants. It was crushed, so damp that the paper was almost pulped. Much of the ink had smeared, but Johnny recognized Freemantle’s name. The address was the Department of Corrections. Freemantle tossed the envelope and Johnny picked it up. Inside was a newspaper clipping. Bits of paper came off on Johnny’s fingers. “Somebody had to read it to me,” Freemantle said.

“What is it?” Jack asked.

But Johnny was trying to read. The headline was clear enough. “Toddler Dies in Hot Car.”

“The little ones are a gift.” Freemantle tilted his head and the bad eye caught fire. “The last true thing.”

“They left his daughter in the car.” Johnny squinted. “They went drinking in some bar at the beach, and they left her in the car.”

“My wife,” Freemantle said. “Her boyfriend.”

“There was an investigation. The cops ruled it accidental.”

“They buried her without a preacher, just put her in the ground with people that don’t have names or family. My wife never even told me. I wasn’t there to say goodbye.” He paused again, then his voice broke. “Sofia went in the ground without her daddy there to say goodbye.”

“Who sent this to you?” Johnny held up the clipping. It was from one of the newspapers at the coast.

But Freemantle had gone distant again, eyes unfocused, hands turned up on his knees. “I left my baby a picture so she wouldn’t miss me. I drew it in her closet so she could see it every day and not be sad that her daddy was gone. She liked to play in her closet. She had a doll baby with tiny white shoes.” He held up two fingers, an inch apart. “She had some Crayons for coloring, some paper I brung home from the store one day. That’s why I drew us in the closet, ’cause she felt so good in there, ’cause it was her play place.” He tilted his big head. “But a picture can’t take care of nobody. Picture can’t keep a baby girl safe.”

“I’m sorry.” Johnny meant it.

“Who sent the clipping?” Jack asked.

Freemantle smeared fingers across his face. “A neighbor lady with two babies of her own. She never liked my wife. She found out about what happened and sent that to me in jail. That’s why I walked off, so I could stand over my baby’s grave and make sure it was done right and proper, but it was just bare dirt that rose up in the middle. No flowers, no stone. I sat down and put my hand on the dirt. That’s when God told me.”

“Told you what?”

“That’s when he told me to kill them.”

The boys looked at each other and both had the same thought.

Insane.

Crazy fucking insane.

“God told me to bring my baby here.” Freemantle looked up, and new life stirred in the desert of his face. “The little ones are gifts.” He cupped his giant battered hands. “The last true things. That’s why God told me to pick you up.”

“What?”

“Life is a circle. That’s what he said to tell you.”

“Johnny…” It was Jack, a bare whisper. Johnny held up a hand.

“God told you to tell me that?”

“I remember now.”

“What does that mean?”

“Johnny…” Jack’s voice hinted at panic. Johnny tore his eyes from Levi Freemantle. His friend was pale and rigid. Johnny followed his gaze to the pile of filthy fabric by the stove. Shreds of pants. The twist of bandage from the infected finger. Jack pointed and Johnny saw it. A name tag sewn into the cloth Freemantle had used for a bandage. A name tag. A name.

Alyssa Merrimon.

Bloody and stained.

Johnny looked at Freemantle, who drew a shape in the air with one finger.

“Circle,” he said.

And Johnny pulled the gun.

CHAPTER FORTY-ONE

Hunt was late getting home. The dinner was cold in the bag, but Allen made no comment. They ate in the kitchen, together but silent, and tension came off them in waves. At the door to his son’s room, Hunt apologized. “It’s just the case,” he said.

“Sure.”

Hunt watched his son kick off grungy shoes. “It’ll be over soon.”

“College starts in three months.” He pulled off his shirt and tossed it after the shoes. Fine hairs textured his chest, rose from the hollow place at the base of his neck. His son was all but grown, Hunt realized, as close to a man as a boy could get and still have boy in him. Hunt paused, knowing that there was nothing he could say that would make this better.

“Son…”

“She never calls.”

“Who?”

“Mom,” he said, and there was nothing but boy in his face.

“I don’t know what to say.”

“Don’t say anything.”

Hurt, angry boy.

“Allen, I-”

“Just close the door.”

Hunt could not move.

“Please,” Allen said, and the look on his face was a blow to the gut, a hammer stroke. A stone settled on Hunt’s heart and it carried the weight of a million failed expectations, the certainty that it should not be like this for his son.

“Please,” Allen said again, and Hunt had no choice.

“Good night, son.”

Hunt closed the door, then went downstairs. He stuffed cartons and paper bags into the trash, then poured a slug of scotch that he knew he would never finish. The day was all over him: death and despicable men, the lives of children cut short, and a host of still-unanswered questions. He wanted a shower and ten hours of sleep. Under his fingers, his face felt like an old man’s face. He walked into his study, unlocked the desk drawer and pulled out the Alyssa Merrimon case file. He stared for a long time at her picture, glanced over the notes, the jotted questions, but his mind was on Yoakum. He replayed the moment that Meechum had died, the smell of gun smoke and Yoakum’s steady hand, his eyes, so glassy smooth and still.

The call came at twelve thirty. “You awake?” Yoakum asked.

“Yes.”

“Drunk?”

Hunt closed Alyssa’s file. “No.”

“I am.”

“What is it, John? What’s on your mind?” Hunt knew the answer.

“How long we been doing this?” Yoakum asked.

“A long time.”

“Partners?”

“And friends.”

A silence drew out, Yoakum’s breath on the line. “What did you tell them?” he finally asked.

“I told them what happened.”

“That’s not what I’m asking and you know it.”

Hunt pictured his friend, saw him in his own small house, a glass in his hand, in his living room, staring at the ashes of a long-dead fire. Yoakum was sixty-three. He’d been a cop for over thirty years; it was all he had. Hunt didn’t answer the question.

“You’re my friend, Clyde. He was going for you with an ax. What was I supposed to do?”

“Is that the reason you took the heart shot?”

“Of course.”

“It wasn’t anger? Not payback?”

“For what?” A different anger was waking.

“You know for what.”

“Tell me, Clyde. You tell me for what.”

“For those kids. For seven graves in a patch of muddy woods. For years of bad shit in our own backyard.”