“Why am I not surprised?”

“I need a favor.”

“You’re running out of markers.”

“It’s Ken Holloway. Check his office. Check his house. I want you to find him, and I want you to arrest him.”

A silence followed. Hunt knew that she was replaying the last time, thinking about the lawsuit and how she’d like to keep her name off the next piece of paper filed in the Clerk’s Office. “And the reason?”

“Obstruction. He tipped Meechum that we were coming to question him. I’ll do the paperwork this afternoon, but I want him locked up now, as in right now. Any heat, I’ll take it; but I want the bastard locked up.”

“Is this arrest legitimate?”

“A week ago, you’d have never asked me that.”

“A week ago, I would not have felt the need to.”

“Just do it.”

Hunt clicked off, then called information and asked for the number of the Raven County Public Library. The operator gave him the number, and then connected him. “Circulation desk.” The voice belonged to a man. Hunt told him what he wanted and heard keys rattling on a keyboard. “That book is checked out.”

“I know it is. Do you have more than one copy?”

“Checking. Yes, we do have another copy.”

“Hold it for me,” Hunt said. “And give me your name.”

Hunt hung up the phone and steered for the library. Yoakum was out of his hands. The Jarvis site was under control. That left Johnny. A messed-up kid. A runaway with a stolen gun.

Freed slaves.

Freemantle.

Hunt knew the name because he’d seen it in Johnny’s book. It had been just a glance, but he remembered the sense of it now: “John Pendleton Merrimon, Surgeon and Abolitionist.” There had been another photograph on the next page. He’d barely noticed it at the time, but he had it now.

Isaac Freemantle.

And there had been a map.

Hunt accelerated, his back pressing into hot seat leather. Johnny knew where to find Freemantle, and Freemantle was an escaped convict, a killer.

Hunt reached for the lights. He blew down Main Street doing seventy-five, pulled into the lot, and left the engine running. Two minutes later, he was back with the book. He thumbed pages until he found the right one. He studied the photograph of John Pendleton Merrimon: the broad forehead, the heavy, masculine features. He wore a severe black suit and looked nothing like Johnny, except for the eyes, maybe. He had dark eyes.

Hunt read of Isaac, who chose the name Freemantle to signify his new freedom. And there was a picture of him, too, a large man in rough clothes and a slouch hat. He had massive hands and a patchy beard shot with white. Johnny had told Hunt that Freemantle was a mustee name, and Hunt thought that he could see the trace of Indian in Isaac Freemantle’s features. Something in the eyes, perhaps. Or in the planes of his cheeks.

The map filled the opposite page. There was the river, the swamp, a long jut of land with water on three sides.

Hush Arbor.

Hunt compared the map in the book with the road map in his glove compartment. Hush Arbor, whatever it was, lay in the most deserted part of the county. Nothing there but woods and swamp and river. There was no record of Freemantles having a phone or utilities in Raven County, so the information could be meaningless, dated by a century and a half, but Hunt needed the kid. For a dozen reasons, he needed the kid.

Hunt put the car in gear.

Hush Arbor was north and west.

CHAPTER FORTY-EIGHT

Officer Taylor went to Ken Holloway’s office first. She drove downtown and pulled into the big parking lot that framed Holloway’s building on two sides. She moved slowly, looking for a white Escalade with gold letters. Didn’t find it. Leaving her cruiser in front of the building, Taylor checked her belt, then walked to the big glass doors. She liked the way the belt rode on her hips. Serious metal. Heavy-duty gear. Taylor loved being a cop. The authority that came with the badge. The blue uniform that never wrinkled. She liked to drive fast. She liked to arrest bad people.

Her shoes made small, rubbery sounds on the waxed marble floor.

A woman sat behind a large reception counter, and Taylor felt her eyes all the way across the vaulted space. The woman was crisp and richly dressed, her gaze judgmental, her voice superior. “Yes?” she said, and Taylor disliked her at once.

“I’m here to speak with Ken Holloway.” She used her cop voice, the one that said, Don’t make me repeat myself.

The receptionist arched an eyebrow. Her lips barely moved. “To what is this pertaining?”

“It’s pertaining to my wanting to see him.”

“I see.” She pursed thin lips. “Mr. Holloway is not in today.”

Taylor pulled out a pad and pen. “And your name?” People hated the pad and pen. They disliked being on record with a cop. The receptionist reluctantly gave her name and Taylor wrote it down. “And you say Mr. Holloway is not in?”

“Yes. I mean, no. He is not in.”

The receptionist had paled into submission, but Taylor never smiled when she used her authority. She used minimal language and kept her face neutral. “When was the last time you saw or spoke with Mr. Holloway?”

“He’s not been in since sometime yesterday.”

“And others in this building would be willing to confirm that?”

“I believe so.”

Taylor made a slow perusal of the room: the art on the walls, the directory, the elevators. She placed a card on the counter. “Please have Mr. Holloway call that number when he comes in.”

“Yes, ma’am.”

Taylor held eye contact, then left the way she entered, slow and steady, one hand on the wide, vinyl belt. Back in the car, she keyed up the laptop and checked DMV records for all vehicles owned by Ken Holloway. In addition to the Escalade, he owned a Porsche 911, a Land Rover, and a Harley-Davidson. Taylor made one more sweep of the parking lot, but saw none of those vehicles. A note went in the pad, next to the receptionist’s name: probably telling the truth.

Holloway’s house was on one of the big golf courses on the rich side of town. The course was private, built around a palatial clubhouse of stone and ivy. No house on his street cost less than two million dollars, and Holloway’s was the biggest, a white monolith on four acres of manicured lawn. Halfway up the drive, Taylor passed a statue of a black liveryman holding a lantern and smiling broadly.

Taylor got out of the car and mounted broad steps to the long verandah. The front door stood open above a floor of lacquered slate. At first, there was only silence, the call of a bird; then Officer Taylor heard someone crying.

A woman.

Inside.

Taylor’s hand dropped to the butt of her weapon. She thumbed off the leather strap, stepped to the open door. She saw an ax on the floor by what remained of the piano. The top of it was splintered. Blows had shattered the keyboard and ivory teeth were strewn across the carpet. Everything else looked perfect.

Taylor keyed her radio, got dispatch. She gave her location and requested backup; then she drew her weapon, announced herself, and stepped over the threshold. She smelled liquor and saw open bottles on a coffee table. One of them was empty, the other halfway.

The crying came from someplace deeper in the house. Kitchen, maybe. Or a bedroom. Taylor stepped through the arched entry into the living room. Looking right, she saw a mirror on the sofa, rails of what looked like cocaine cut out in neat rows.

Wires were torn from the guts of the piano.

“Police,” she called again. “I’m armed.”

She found the woman in a short hall beyond the living room. She was young, maybe nineteen, with dark roots, bleached hair, and flawless skin. Her teeth were crooked but white, her hands rough and red. She sat on the floor, crying, and Taylor saw that her eyes were very blue. “He didn’t do nothing. I’m okay.” Her accent was from down east. Taylor had grown up poor in the sand hills and had known a dozen girls just like her, uneducated and pretty, desperate to find some better place.