“If the Merrimon kid stayed on the trail, he would need to cover a lot of ground to reach the place where he was grabbed, say ten or fifteen minutes at a dead run.” Cross tapped a finger on the map. “If I left the trail and cut across here, I could walk to that same place in five minutes.”

“Cut through the woods, and it’s close.”

“Really close.”

Hunt looked out at the tent, a blur in the drumming rain. The man had been run off the road, crushed. “If David Wilson was killed because he learned something-”

“Knew something about the missing girl…”

Hunt bit down. “The man that killed him would want Johnny dead, too. And if he knew the way the river runs-”

“He could cross here and wait for the boy. Johnny runs for twelve, fifteen minutes. The killer walks for five, and there he is when Johnny comes around the corner.”

“Damn.” Hunt straightened. “Get on the radio. I want an all-points on a large black male, forty to sixty, with severe scarring on the right side of his face. His car will have visible damage, probably to the left front fender. Inform dispatch that he’s wanted in connection with the homicide of David Wilson but may also be linked to the abduction of Tiffany Shore. Use caution in apprehending. We need to question him. Get that out now.”

Cross pulled out his radio and called it in.

Hunt waited, and another wave of anger rolled over him. The past year had worn him thin, made him sloppy. He should have seen the river issue-the way it bent like that-not heard it from some rookie detective. But it was done. The girl was what mattered, so it had to be done. He let it go, drilled in on the matter at hand. Tiffany was missing for less than a day, eight hours, almost nine. This time, he would bring the kid home. He clenched his fists and he swore it.

This time it would be different.

He looked at Johnny’s bike, heard the boy’s voice in his head.

Promise?

Hunt reached for the large, brown feather that hung below the seat of Johnny’s bike. It was tattered and sad looking, gritty between his fingers. He stroked it smooth.

Promise.

Behind him, Cross lowered the radio. “Done,” he said.

Hunt nodded.

“What do you have there?”

Hunt let the feather droop back on the cord that secured it. It swung once, then stuck on the wet metal. “Nothing,” he said. “A feather.”

Cross stepped closer and lifted the feather.

“This is an eagle feather.”

“How do you know that?”

Cross shrugged, looked embarrassed. “I was born in the mountains. My grandmother is half Cherokee. She was into all that totem stuff.”

“Totem stuff?”

“You know. Rituals and sacred plants.” He lifted a hand toward the river. “The river for purity. Snakes for wisdom. Stuff like that.” He shrugged. “I always thought it was kind of bullshit.”

“Totems?” Hunt repeated.

“Yeah.” He gestured at the feather. “That’s good magic.”

“What kind of magic?”

“Strength. Power.” Lightning thumped and he let the feather fall. “Only chiefs carry eagle feathers.”

In the back of the patrol car, Johnny’s mother slumped against his shoulder. Her head rolled when the curves came fast, bounced when the tires hit rough pavement. The river was behind them, the dead guy, too, and what was left of Johnny’s faith in the wisdom of cops. Hunt refused to consider that this could still be about Alyssa, and that had made Johnny angry.

Maybe!

He’d said it loud, then repeated it when Hunt’s eyes went soft.

Maybe it is!

But Hunt was busy and had his own ideas. He’d grown short with Johnny’s insistence, then declined further discussion and ordered them home.

Leave it alone, he’d said. This is not your problem.

But the cop was wrong. Johnny felt it in his heart. It was his problem.

The patrol car stopped in the driveway. Rain hammered on the metal roof and Johnny studied the house, the light that faltered in the small, muddy yard. Shadows moved inside. Ken’s car sat in the drive; Uncle Steve’s did, too. The pills had taken his mother. Her eyes were closed, and small sounds tripped past her lips. Johnny hesitated, and the patrolman turned in his seat, his face distorted behind the glass divider covered with handprints and dried spit. “She okay?” he asked.

Johnny nodded.

“Well, this is it, kid.” He hesitated, eyes still on Johnny’s mother. “Is she going to need some help?”

Johnny defense mechanisms kicked in. “She’s okay.”

“Well, let’s go.”

Johnny shook his mother’s shoulder. Her head lolled and he shook harder. When she opened her eyes, he squeezed her arm. “We have to go,” he said. “We’re home.”

“Home.” She repeated the word.

“Yes. Home. Let’s go.” Johnny opened his door and the rain sound changed from metallic clang to muted roar. Sheets of water fell on wet earth and drooping leaves. Warm air flooded the car. “Don’t forget your bag,” he said.

Johnny got her out of the car and turned for the shelter of the porch as the patrol car backed out of the mud and spun tires on the slick blacktop. He was on the porch when he realized that his mother was not with him. She stood in the rain, face turned to heaven, hands palm up. Her bag lay in the mud where she’d dropped it. Water fell black around her.

Johnny splashed to her side, the rain stinging hard from its long fall down. “Mom?” He took her arm again. “Come on. Let’s go inside.” She kept her eyes closed but spoke, her voice too low to hear. “What?” Johnny asked.

“I want to go away.”

“Mom…”

“I want to wash into the earth and be gone from this place.”

Johnny picked up her bag, squeezed her arm hard. “Inside. Now.” He sounded like Ken, he realized; but she followed him.

Inside, the lights burned sulfur bright. Uncle Steve sat at the kitchen table, a row of beer cans in front of him. Ken paced, bourbon in a glass between his heavy fingers. They looked up as Johnny led his mother in. “About time,” Ken said. “The nerve of that arrogant cop, telling me that I couldn’t come. Telling me that I could go home or wait here with him.” He gestured at Uncle Steve, and the disdain was plain in his voice. Steve’s head dipped between his shoulders. “I’m going to talk to somebody about that. He should know who I am.”

“He knows who you are. He just doesn’t care.” The words popped out of Johnny before he’d thought them through. Ken stopped and stared, and Johnny knew it could go two ways. But then his mother came in behind him. She was blank-eyed and soaking wet; her clothing clung to her. Johnny took her arm as Ken stared. “Come on,” he said. “I’ll take you to your room.”

“I’ll take her.” Ken stepped toward them, and Johnny felt something pop. “No,” he said. “Just back off, Ken. She doesn’t need you right now. She just needs to go to bed. She needs sleep and quiet and nobody messing with her.”

Red suffused Ken’s face. “Messing with her…”

Johnny thought briefly of the folding knife in his pocket. He put himself between Ken and his mother. The moment stretched until Ken decided to smile around his straight and brilliant teeth. “Katherine?” He looked to Johnny’s mother. “Tell your son it’s okay.”

“It’s okay, Johnny.” The words traveled from some distant place. She swayed a bit, then said, “I’m fine.” She turned from her son and shambled to the short and lightless hall. “Let’s just go to bed.” She put a hand on the wall, stopped for three long seconds, and Johnny watched water run down her face. When she turned, her voice had nothing left. “Go home, Steve.”

Ken followed her to the end of the hall, looked back once, and shut the door. Johnny did not hear the lock drop, but he knew that it had. He wanted to punch the wall; instead, he looked at his Uncle Steve, who gathered his cans in silence. He tossed them in the trash and collected his keys, a giant ring of them that opened every door at the mall. Paradise to any other kid. Just metal to Johnny. Uncle Steve stopped at the door. His eyes were troubled, and he looked at Johnny differently. He put an arm on the doorjamb. “Is this how it is?” he asked, opening one palm in a gesture that encompassed Johnny and the short hall to the locked door.