The only response was brush moving and Martinez breathing.

“Anyway, there’s the car.’’ I stopped and pointed ahead. “I walked around a bit, trying to make sure no one was out here hurt. But I didn’t do a real search, and I didn’t touch anything. I figured I’d better call you first.’’

Martinez had whipped out his phone. “That’s the first smart thing I’ve seen you do.’’ He studied the display panel as he scrolled, searching for a number. “You can go now. I radioed in earlier with your report. Now, I’ll call in the tag number. We’ll take over from here.’’

Right. The professionals. “All righty, then. Y’all take care.’’ I injected a pleasant, polite tone into my voice.

Martinez stopped peering at the telephone and looked at me. “What the hell does that mean?’’

“Y’all is the way we say ‘you guys’ in Himmarshee.’’

“That’s not what I mean, and you know it. Why are you giving in so easily? Why haven’t you insisted on combing the swamp? I thought you’d want to be the one to find Emma Jean, maybe carry her to safety on your back. La heroína, the heroine.’’

“Nah.’’ I didn’t tell him I had other plans. “But I hope you find her safe. She seems pretty strange to me, but she’s a friend of Mama’s. I hope nothing bad has happened to her.’’

He nodded, looking down at the phone again.

“I’ll just leave you out here with the mosquitoes and the mud.’’ I looked at his pant leg, with muck up to the shin. “You better get those slacks in water when you get home. That muck stinks like crap. And you ought to get yourself a good pair of boots, too.’’

“Thanks for the advice.’’ He didn’t sound grateful.

“No problem.’’ I started back toward the road, and then turned around. “Detective?’’

He looked at me, phone to his ear. I tossed him the bug repellent I’d stuck in my pocket. “You’ll need to use some more of that. You’ll sweat out here like an asphalt worker in August, and everything you sprayed on will drip off. Not to mention, it’ll be dark soon. That’s when these baby bugs out here call in their big brothers.’’

He caught the toss and rewarded me with an almost-warm smile. “Thanks, Mace.’’

I couldn’t ignore the thrill I got when I heard him use my first name. No doubt about it: I had feelings for Detective Carlos Martinez, and that signaled trouble.

Meow. Meowwww.

The cat was doing curlicues around my ankles as I climbed the stairs of Emma Jean’s front porch. It slunk behind me; then in front. “Go on, kitty. Move.” I gently nudged the cat’s hindquarters with the toe of my boot.

It looked at me over its shoulder as if to say I had my nerve.

I knocked at the door. No response. It was a long shot, but I still hoped to find Emma Jean home, embarrassed at the fuss she created. I pictured her in a bathrobe—pink, to match the Calamine lotion dotted on the bug bites she got walking out of the swamp. Maybe she’d be snuggled in front of the TV, watching an old black-and-white movie about lost love. There’d be a pile of crumpled tissues beside her. I wanted her to be safe.

Martinez may have had a point. I like to save the day. What was the Spanish word he used? Heroína. Heroine.

The sun was setting, trailing a few long fingers of pink and yellow across a darkening sky. Enough light remained to see that Emma Jean’s place looked just as it had that morning, when Mama and I stopped by. Flowers still drooped; curtains were drawn. And, judging by the cat’s insistent mewling, it hadn’t eaten.

On the porch next to the flower pot sat a set of silver bowls, printed with cat silhouettes. One held water, but the food bowl was empty. I found a green plastic bin against the wall, with assorted cat food inside. I might feel helpless about Emma Jean, but at least I could take care of her cat. I grabbed one of the tins and popped the tab to open the lid.

At the ssssssssft sound and the fishy smell, the cat increased its orbits around my ankles. I feared it might launch itself right off the porch. I didn’t see a spoon, so I just dumped a bit of dry chow into the bowl, then scooped some wet food on top with my fingers. I wiped the salmon stink from my hand onto the front-door mat. Better there than on my slacks.

Suddenly, I heard a car engine slow on the street out front. Then came squeaks and rattles, as the vehicle jounced over Emma Jean’s unpaved drive. I crouched behind the cat food bin for cover, watching between the slats of the porch railing. Headlights moved up and down, coming closer.

“Shhh,’’ I whispered to the cat, which was ignoring me now that food filled its bowl. “None of that Siamese screeching, y’hear? As quiet as a mouse.’’

As the car drew near, I could see the outline of lights on the top. Then, the familiar blue-and-white markings of the Himmarshee Police Department. My breath whooshed out in relief. The cat lifted its head at me, then went right back to eating. Kind of like me, when I sit down to dinner.

The car rolled to a stop. The driver’s door opened. In the glow of the dome light, I thought I recognized a military-style haircut and pumped upper body. I was just about to stand up and call out, but I hesitated. I can’t really say why, except the events of the last few days had made me suspicious of everyone. I stayed put and kept watching from my little hiding spot.

Switching on his flashlight, the uniformed officer started for the backyard. I was glad I’d pulled the VW off to the side, behind the toolshed. I hadn’t wanted to advertise that I was snooping around, indulging my fantasy of rescuing Emma Jean.

I crept off the porch and past the rose bushes, where Mama had pinched off dead blooms. Night was coming fast. But I still could see the old pickup as I rounded the corner of the house. The flashlight beam traveled over the truck: Across the front seat, into the space of the extended cab, then out the rear window. Like an oversized firefly, it flitted from rear to front and down to the ground. It lit on the right front tire, staying for a good while.

As I got closer, I could see him reflected in the beam. His head was bent to the tire. He ran a hand over the tread.

“Hey, Donnie.’’ I spoke quietly, from about twenty feet away.

He jumped like the tire gave him a shock. His hand flew up, hovering just above the gun at his right hip.

I quickly called out, “It’s just me, Mace Bauer. No weapon.’’

He dropped his hand to his side and rocked forward onto his knees. “You should know better than to sneak up on somebody who’s armed, Mace. Mistakes can happen.’’