Hunt scrubbed his face one more time.

He was too close, he knew that; but the case had a grip on him. A glance at the office showed the depth of his fall. There were cases here that needed work. Other people. Real people who suffered just like the Merrimons did; but those cases paled, and he still did not know why. The girl had even found her way into his dreams. She wore the same clothes she had on the day she disappeared: faded yellow shorts, a white top. She was pale in the dream. Short hair. Eighty pounds. A hot spring day. There was no lead up when it happened; the dream started like a cannon shot, full-blown, color and sound. Something was pulling her into a dark place beneath the trees, dragging her through the warm, rotten leaves. Her hand was out, mouth open, teeth very white. He dove for the hand, missed, and she screamed as long fingers drew her down into some dark and seamless place.

When it happened, he woke sheeted in sweat, arms churning as if he were digging through leaves. The dream found him two or three nights a week, and it was the same every time. He’d climb from bed sometime close to three, shaky, wide-awake, then put cold water on his face and stare long into bloody eyes before going downstairs to pore through the file for whatever hours remained before his son woke up and the day put its own long fingers on his skin.

The dream had become his personal hell, the file a ritual, a religion; and it was eating him alive.

“Good morning.”

Hunt jerked, looked up. In the door stood John Yoakum, his partner and friend. “Hey, John. Good morning.”

Yoakum was sixty-three years old, with thinning brown hair and a goatee shot with gray. Thin but very fit, he was dangerously smart, cynical to a fault. They’d been partners for four years, worked a dozen major cases together, and Hunt liked the guy. He was a private man and a smart-ass, but he also brought rare insight to a job that demanded nothing less. He worked long hours when they needed to be worked, watched his partner’s back; and if he was a little dark, a little private, Hunt was okay with that.

Yoakum shook his head. “I’d like to live the night that made you look like this.”

“No, you wouldn’t.”

Yoakum’s grin fell off and his words were brisk. “I know that, Clyde. Just messing with you.” He gestured over his shoulder. “I have a call you might want to take.”

“Yeah. Why is that?”

“Because it’s about Johnny Merrimon.”

“Seriously?”

“Some lady wants to talk to a cop. I told her that I was the only real cop here today. I said, Emotional wrecks, yeah, got one of those. An obsessive compulsive that used to look like a cop. She could have that guy, too. Both, in fact. At the same time.”

“What line, smart-ass?”

Yoakum showed his fine, porcelain teeth. “Line three,” he said, and left with an easy swagger. Hunt lifted the phone and punched the flashing button for line three. “This is Detective Hunt.”

At first there was silence, then a woman’s voice. She sounded old. “Detective? I don’t know that I need a detective. It’s not that important, really. I just thought someone should know.”

“It’s okay, ma’am. May I have your name, please?”

“Louisa Sparrow, like the bird.”

The voice fit. “What’s the problem, Ms. Sparrow?”

“It’s that poor boy. You know, the one that lost his sister.”

“Johnny Merrimon.”

“That’s the one. The poor boy…” She trailed off for an instant, then her voice firmed. “He was just at my house… just this minute.”

“With a picture of his sister,” Hunt interrupted.

“Why, yes. How did you know?”

Hunt ignored the question. “May I have your address, please, ma’am?”

“He’s not in trouble, is he? He’s been through enough, I know. It’s just that it’s a school day, and it’s all very upsetting, seeing her picture like that, and how he still looks just like her, like he hasn’t grown at all; and those questions he asks, like I might have had something to do with it.”

Detective Hunt thought about the small boy he’d found at the grocery store. The deep eyes. The wariness. “Mrs. Sparrow…”

“Yes.”

“I really need that address.”

Hunt found Johnny Merrimon a block away from Louisa Sparrow’s house. The boy sat on the curb, his feet crossed in the gutter. Sweat soaked his shirt and plastered hair to his forehead. A beat-up bike lay where he’d dropped it, half on the grass of somebody’s lawn. He was chewing on a pen and bent over a map that covered his lap like a blanket. His concentration was complete, broken only when Hunt slammed the car door. In that instant the boy looked like a startled animal, but then he paused. Hunt saw recognition snap in the boy’s eyes, then determination and something deeper.

Acceptance.

Then cunning.

His eyes gauged distance, as if he might hop on his bike and try to run. He risked a glance at the nearby woods, but Hunt stepped closer, and the kid sagged. “Hello, Detective.”

Hunt pulled off his sunglasses. His shadow fell on the boy’s feet. “Hello, Johnny.”

Johnny began folding the map. “I know what you’re going to say, so you don’t have to say it.”

Hunt held out his hand. “May I see the map?” Johnny froze, and the hunted animal look rose again in his face. He looked down the long street, then at the map. Hunt continued: “I’ve heard about that map, you see. I didn’t believe it at first, but people have told me.” Hunt’s eyes were hard on the boy. “How many times is it now, Johnny? How many times have I talked to you about this? Four? Five?”

“Seven.” His voice barely rose from the gutter. His fingers showed white on the map.

“I’ll give it back.”

The boy looked up, black eyes shining, and the sense of cunning fell away. He was a kid. He was scared. “Promise?”

He looked so small. “I promise, Johnny.”

Johnny raised his hand and Hunt’s fingers closed on the map. It was worn soft and showed white in the folds. He sat on the curb, next to the boy, and spread the map between his hands. It was large, purple ink on white paper. He recognized it as a tax map, with names and matching addresses. It only covered a portion of the city, maybe a thousand properties. Close to half had been crossed off in red ink. “Where did you get this?” he asked.

“Tax assessor. They’re not expensive.”

“Do you have all of them? For the entire county?” Johnny nodded, and Hunt asked, “The red marks?”

“Houses I’ve visited. People I’ve spoken to.”

Hunt was struck dumb. He could not imagine the hours involved, the ground covered on a busted-up bike. “What about the ones with asterisks?”

“Single men living alone. Ones that gave me the creeps.”

Hunt folded the map, handed it back. “Are there marks on other maps, too?”

“Some of them.”

“It has to stop.”

“But-”

“No, Johnny. It has to stop. These are private citizens. We’re getting complaints.”

Johnny stood. “I’m not breaking any laws.”

“You’re a truant, son. You’re ditching school right now. Besides, it’s dangerous. You have no idea who lives in these houses.” He flicked one finger at the map; it snapped against the paper and Johnny pulled it away. “I can’t lose another kid.”

“I can take care of myself.”

“Yeah, you told me that this morning.”

Johnny looked away, and Hunt studied the line of his narrow jaw, the muscles that pressed against the tight skin. He saw a small feather tied to a string around Johnny’s neck. It shone whitish gray against the boy’s washed-out shirt. Hunt pointed, trying to break the mood. “What’s that?”

Johnny’s hand moved to his neck. He tucked the feather back under his shirt. “It’s a pinfeather,” he said.

“A pinfeather?”

“For luck.”

Hunt saw the kid’s fingers go white, and he saw another feather tied to the bike. The feather was larger, mostly brown. “How about that one?” He pointed again. “Hawk? Owl?”