“Why do you say that?”

“Because the little shit just threw a rock through my front window.”

“What makes you think it’s Johnny?”

Holloway picked up his keys. “It’s always Johnny.”

“Always?”

“This is the fifth fucking time.”

Johnny drove down dark streets, and rain put mercury streaks on the glass. Tiffany Shore ’s parents were rich, and lived just three blocks from Ken Holloway. Johnny had been to a party there once. He slowed as he approached Tiffany’s house, then stopped on the street. He saw cop cars and shadows that moved behind draped windows. He watched the house for a long time, then looked at the neighbors on both sides. Warm light spilled out of those houses, and in the dark of the street, Johnny felt very alone, because nobody else knew. No one could understand what was happening behind the walls of Tiffany’s house, what her family was suffering: the fear and anger, the slow drain of hope and the end of all things.

No one knew what Johnny knew.

Except her parents, he thought.

Her parents knew.

Hunt sat in his car and watched Holloway come out of the house. He gave a cold stare that Hunt was happy to return, then settled into his car. The big engine caught and the Escalade rocked onto the road. Hunt listened to the rain on his car and looked at the light spilling from Johnny’s house. Katherine was asleep in there, and he pictured her buried under the covers, back curved against the night.

He powered up his laptop and keyed in Johnny Merrimon’s name. Ken had filed complaints, but there was no record of any arrest. No warrants. Whatever Holloway believed about Johnny’s involvement in the ongoing vandalism of his house, he had no proof of it.

Hunt thought about why Johnny would throw rocks through Holloway’s windows. Only one thing made sense. Johnny wanted the man out of his house, away from his mother, and he’d figured out the one thing that would do it every time. No way would a man like Holloway leave his house unguarded. Not overnight.

Five times and never caught. Hunt shook his head and tried not to smile.

He really did like that kid.

For another two minutes, Hunt sat in the car and pored through the Tiffany Shore file. It was thin. He knew what she was wearing when last seen. He had a list of identifying marks. A dime-sized birthmark marred the back of her right shoulder blade; a fishhook scar still showed pink on her left calf. She was twelve years old, blond, with no major dental work, no surgical scars. Hunt had her height, weight, date of birth. She owned a cell phone but records showed no outgoing calls since yesterday. Not much to go on. What they did have was a couple of kids who heard her scream but couldn’t agree on the color of the car she was pulled into. Hunt had also questioned her closest friends. As far as they knew, Tiffany had no secret boyfriend, no problems at home. She made good grades, liked horses, and had kissed a boy maybe once. A typical girl.

Hunt jotted a note in the file: Were Tiffany and Alyssa friends? Maybe they both knew the wrong guy.

Hunt thought of the things he did not have. He had no description of the perp, no calls of suspicious activity, and no ID on the car. Basically, nothing. What he did have was Johnny Merrimon and the things that David Wilson had told him before he died. He claimed to have found the girl that had been taken. Found her where? Found her how? Dead or alive? Whoever ran David Wilson off the road did so on purpose. But was it Johnny Merrimon’s giant, as Cross suspected? Or was it someone else?

Hunt needed to find the kid.

He called the station, got one of his detectives. “It’s Hunt. What have you got?”

“Nothing good. Myers and Holiday are still with Tiffany’s parents.”

“Are they holding up?” Hunt interrupted.

“Their doctor is there. The mother, you know. They’re sedating her.”

“Anything on Tiffany’s cell?”

“Nothing. No hits on GPS, either.”

“Is Yoakum still backtracking David Wilson?”

“He’s at the house now.”

“Do we know anything yet?”

“Just that Wilson was a professor at the college. Biology of some sort.”

“What about prints?” Hunt asked.

“We got a thumb print from the victim’s eyelid. We’re running it now. Should know something soon.”

“Volunteers?”

“Over a hundred so far. We’re trying to get that organized for an early start. Should be working the countryside by six.” A silence fell between the men, both thinking the same thing: It’s a damn big county.

“We need more people,” Hunt said. “Get the churches involved, the civic clubs. We had a hundred college kids when Alyssa Merrimon went missing. Call the dean.” Hunt rattled off a number from memory. “He’s sympathetic. See if he can make something happen. Also, I want Tiffany’s school canvassed again tomorrow. Send the least intimidating officers you can find. Young ones. Females. You know the drill. I don’t want to miss something just because some kid is too scared to talk to us.”

“Got it. What else can I do?”

“Hang on.” Hunt pulled up Katherine Merrimon’s registration on his laptop. “Write this down, then put it on the wire.” He gave the model, make, and license plate. “The kid is in his mom’s car. It’s a beater. Shouldn’t be too hard to spot. Check Tate Street first, Ken Holloway’s house. I doubt he’ll be there, but it’s worth a look. If anyone sees this car, I need to know immediately. Stop and detain. Call me when it happens.”

“On it.”

“Good. Give me David Wilson’s address.” Hunt reached for his pen, but saw movement on the porch of Johnny’s house. A pale arm reached out.

What the hell?

He heard a scream, muted by the rain. His fingers found the lights, and bright beams slashed through the rain. “Holy shit.”

“Detective-”

Hunt pressed the phone to his ear. “I have to go,” he said.

“But-”

Hunt clicked the phone shut. His hand moved for the door, and he spoke again, even as rain hit his face.

“Holy shit.”

But another scream drowned out the words.

Johnny stuck to the side streets and drove from one side of town to the other. Jack lived in a neighborhood with small houses and neat yards, a place full of cops and grocers and deliverymen. Swing sets and toys dotted the grass. On sunny days, kids played catch in the street. It was a good place, if you lived there, but strange cars stood out, so Johnny parked two blocks away and hoofed it through the rain. A light was on in Jack’s room. Johnny peeked over the sill and saw his friend. He stretched across the bed, comic books strewn around him. He scratched himself as he read.

Johnny was about to tap the glass when Jack’s door opened. Gerald walked in. Tall and muscular, he wore jeans and no shirt, a Clemson hat spun backward. He said something that pissed his brother off, because Jack threw one of his comic books, then pushed his brother out and locked the door.

Johnny tapped on the glass, watched Jack look up. He tapped again and his friend crossed the room. The window came up a few inches. Jack knelt at the crack. “Jesus, Johnny. Are you okay? I heard about what happened. Crap. I can’t believe I missed it. A real live dead guy.”

Johnny checked the door over Jack’s shoulder. “Can you come outside?”

“I don’t think so.” Jack looked shamefaced. “You know about the lockdown, right? Tiffany Shore?”

“I know about it.”

“The school called my dad when they couldn’t find me.”

“My mom, too.”

“Yeah. Well. He caught me with his beer and I was still drunk. I’m in it deep. Mom’s at church, praying for Tiffany’s life and my eternal soul.” He rolled his eyes, then hooked a thumb at the door. “Dickhead’s in charge. He’s supposed to keep an eye on me.” Jack pressed closer to the crack. “But this dead guy. That must have been intense. What’s happening now? I heard some of the stuff my dad said. Did he really have something to do with Tiffany?”