Hunt led Cross to his office and closed the door. Cross was ragged, his shirt coffee-stained and wrinkled. He’d failed to shave, and Hunt noticed that most of his whiskers were coming in white. “What’s on your mind?”

“Any word on the Merrimon kid?”

“We’re hopeful.”

“But not yet?”

“Is there a problem?” Hunt asked.

“My son, Jack. I can’t find him.”

“What does that mean, you can’t find him?”

Cross ran thick fingers across the brush of his hair. “We had a fight. He snuck out of the house.”

“When?”

“Last night.” A pause. “Maybe two nights ago.”

“Maybe?”

“I’m not sure about the first night. Maybe he left then, maybe it was the next morning. I was out of the house early and didn’t see him. With everything in the papers, you know, my wife’s worried. More than she might otherwise be. She doesn’t handle worry very well.”

“She’s worried, but you’re not.”

Cross fidgeted, and it was clear to Hunt that he was more than worried. He was genuinely frightened. “Do you know my wife, Detective?”

“I met her some years ago.”

Cross’s head moved. “She’s a changed woman. The last few years…” He paused, struggling. “She’s become very religious. She’s been at the church for most of the past thirty hours, not really eating or sleeping, just praying, mostly for Jack. She’s worried that he may be out with the Merrimon kid. If I could tell her that he’s not-”

“Why is that her worry? Why Johnny?”

Cross cast a concerned gaze across the room. He lowered his voice. “She claims to see a darkness on Johnny’s soul. A stain.” He cringed as he said it, apologetic. “I know, I know; but there it is. She thinks that Johnny is bad for Jack. She’s more worried about that than anything else. She’s not right, you understand.” He squinted, tilted his head. “She’s struggling.”

“I’m sorry to hear it.” Hunt paused. “Are you worried about Jack?”

“Ah, he’s done this kind of stuff before. Normal teenage junk. But two nights, if it is two nights… That’s unusual.”

“What was the fight about?”

“Jack worships that Merrimon kid. I mean, truly. Like a brother. Like a saint, even. I can’t break him of it.”

“And that’s why you fought?”

“Jack’s a weak kid, more like his mother than his brother. He’s frightened and easily led. My wife’s irrationality aside, Johnny is a bad influence. A rule breaker. Damaged, you know. I told Jack to stay away from him.”

“Johnny’s a good boy, but he’s been pulled apart by all of this.”

“Exactly. He’s fucked up.”

“He’s traumatized.”

“That’s what I said.”

Hunt buried his frustration. Not everyone saw Johnny the way he did. “What can I do for you, Cross? You want Jack’s name added to the all-points?”

“No. God, no. Just let me know if you hear anything. His mother is upset, not thinking straight. She blames me. The sooner I can tell her that he’s okay…”

“I understand.”

“Thanks, Hunt. I owe you.”

Cross left. Hunt stood in the door and saw Yoakum come back inside. His face had lost none of the anger. He was barely into the room when the Chief’s door swung wide. “Hunt. Yoakum.”

The Chief preceded them through the door. He circled his desk but remained standing. Hunt stepped in first. To the right, he saw the two unknown men. Both were north of fifty, tall and square with lined, uncompromising faces. One had silver hair, the other brown. No fat between them. Big hands. Calluses. Badges hung on their belts. Guns. Hunt came farther into the room, got a closer look at the badges. State Bureau of Investigation. From the look of them, they were senior in the Bureau, professional, hard men.

Yoakum came in behind Hunt. He moved right, put himself between Hunt and the state cops. It was warm in the office, close. All five men were big men. All five knew that something was wrong. Problem was, some knew more than others.

The Chief made introductions. “Detectives Hunt, Yoakum. These are agents Barfield and Oliver-”

“Special agents,” Oliver corrected.

No one shook hands. On the desk lay copies of Hunt’s statement about yesterday’s shooting. Yoakum’s was there, too. “Special Agents Barfield and Oliver are from the Raleigh office. They were nice enough to come down early this morning.”

“This morning,” Barfield said, unsmiling. “That’s funny.”

“Why is that funny?” Hunt asked coldly.

“It was closer to last night than this morning,” Barfield said.

Hunt looked at the Chief. If they were here from Raleigh, they must have been on the road since before dawn. “Why are we talking to the SBI?”

“Just take it easy,” the Chief said. “All of you. We’re going to do this right.” He looked at his detectives. Hunt was leery. Yoakum looked bored. “I need your weapons.”

The words were quiet, but fell into the room like a grenade. They had power, those four words, the power to ruin lives, rain collateral damage. Nobody moved. The moment drew out until Yoakum broke the silence. “I beg your pardon?”

“I need your weapons.” The Chief put one finger on the desk. “And I need them now.”

“This is bullshit.” Yoakum could no longer feign disinterest.

“Just do it.” Hunt kept his eyes locked on the Chief, but drew his service weapon and placed it on the desk. Grudgingly, Yoakum followed suit. He watched the state cops, who remained flat-eyed and stoic. “Now what?”

The Chief took the weapons and put them on a credenza against the back wall. It was a telling moment. The guns were out of reach. Turning back, the Chief was clearly unhappy. “We’ve been over your statements,” he said. “All very proper. All very bloodless. But I need to know if it was a clean shoot.” He stared straight into Hunt’s eyes. “And I need you to tell me.”

Hunt felt Yoakum’s sudden attention. The room was silent. “This is all highly unusual.” Hunt looked from the state cops to the Chief. “This is not how it’s done.”

“Please.” The Chief’s voice was surprisingly soft.

Hunt tried to think clearly, to recall every detail of the shooting: how it happened, why it happened. But what came to him were feelings about John Yoakum. More than thirty years on the job. Four years of working side by side. They were partners, friends and colleagues.

And Meechum deserved to die.

The Chief waited, dull-faced and miserable, while Yoakum stared at a fixed point on the wall. “The shoot was clean,” Hunt said.

Stiffness bled out of Yoakum. A trace of smile touched his lips.

“You’re certain?” the Chief asked. “You have no question?”

“From where Yoakum stood, it looked as if Meechum was coming at me with an ax. He made a split-second decision. It was the right one.”

Special Agent Barfield spoke: “We still have to do this.”

“What’s he talking about?” Hunt asked.

The Chief shook his head, eyes briefly closed. Whatever the agent meant, Hunt could tell that the Chief agreed. “Detective Yoakum, I need to ask you to go with these officers.”

“What?” Yoakum’s anger popped.

“To Raleigh. They have some questions. Better that they’re not asked here.”

Yoakum took one step back. “I’m not going to Raleigh.”

Barfield held up his hands, fingers spread. “No reason we can’t do this quietly. Discreetly.”

“Why don’t you discreet my ass?” Yoakum said. “I’m not going anywhere until somebody tells me what’s going on.”

The Chief said, “These questions need to be asked by someone not affiliated with this department. I’ve invited the SBI to assist.”

“Spin control,” Hunt said in disgust.

The Chief shook his head. Barfield laid a hand on Yoakum’s shoulder. It was not a threatening move, not aggressive. Yoakum shrugged it off. “Don’t touch me.”

“Nobody’s arresting you.”

“Arresting me! What the-”

“Settle down, John.”

“Fuck you, Clyde. What questions?”

Barfield reached out with the same hand, stopped short of touching anything. He tilted his body, indicating the door. Yoakum knocked his hand away. “Not until I know what these questions are about.”