He drove out the fear and put his fingers on the key. His eyes, in the mirror, showed red lines and blackened lids. He was untouchable, he told himself, a warrior.

The engine turned, and he put the car in gear.

He was an Indian chief.

Hunt called Yoakum from the car. It was the dead of night, roads empty and scrubbed by the rain.

The phone rang twice. A third time.

After his brief moment of weakness, Hunt had forced down his thoughts of Katherine Merrimon. He’d spent less than a minute standing in her yard, but Hunt felt his guilt. Tiffany was still missing, so he focused all of his energy on the case: questions posed, actions taken. What were they missing? What more could be done?

The phone rang again.

Come on, Yoakum.

When Yoakum answered, he apologized. “It’s crazy down here.” He meant the police station.

“Tell me what’s happening.”

“We’re doing the things you told us to do.”

“Run it for me.”

“The print we lifted from David Wilson’s eyelid is in the system. No hits yet, but it’s early. We have four cars combing the back roads for Wilson’s Land Cruiser, which is, as you guessed, registered to the college. We’re working up a list of Wilson’s friends and relatives, anyone who might be able to tell us where he was today, what he was doing. We’ve already canvassed his colleagues at the college, but they’re useless. There’s a handful of known offenders that we’ve been unable to locate, but we have units on that. Two that we’re looking for seem to be out of town. Houses locked up and dark. Newspapers stacked up out front. I’ve been told that one is in lockup in Wilmington, and should have confirmation on that soon. Two auxiliary officers are working up the search grid for the morning-”

“About the grid.”

“Like you said. We’re going to run the same search pattern we did for Alyssa Merrimon. Logical then, logical now. We just need the manpower.” Yoakum paused. “Look, Clyde. You know all of this. You gave the orders. Why don’t you go home and get some sleep. It’s what? Like two in the morning? Have you checked on your kid, yet?”

Silence.

“Jesus, Hunt. Did you even call him?”

“I’m on my way to you,” Hunt said.

“This is me talking as your friend, okay? You should go home. Get some sleep.”

“Is that a joke?”

“No, actually. It’s not. You were ragged this morning and I doubt you’re any better now. What’s going on down here, this is grunt work. We don’t need you for this, so get some sleep. I need you sharp tomorrow. Tiffany needs you sharp.”

Hunt listened to the tires on pavement. Trees flashed, black, at the edge of his headlights. “Maybe for an hour,” he said.

“Maybe two,” Yoakum replied. “Hell. Get crazy and go for three. I’ll call if anything breaks.”

“Okay. Fair enough.” Hunt was about to disconnect when Yoakum said, “Look, Clyde. You’re good at this. The job, I mean. But you need to keep it together.”

“What are you saying?”

Yoakum exhaled, and the sound spoke volumes. “Just keep it tight, brother.”

Yoakum hung up and Hunt turned the car for home. He knew that he would never sleep, but knew, too, that Yoakum was right. He should try. And his son…

Damn.

That was a whole different matter.

He parked in the drive and switched off the engine. The neighborhood was quiet, so he heard the music before he opened the door to his house. A muted throbbing. The wail of heavy strings. He let himself in and went upstairs, the wallpaper pale and slick against his shoulder. At his son’s door, he knocked, doubting that it would be heard over the music. Eventually, he opened the door.

His first impression was that of pale skin and little motion, a flash of white blond hair and eyes that looked too much like his own. The boy would be eighteen in two weeks. He was big, athletic. He’d been a good student for most of his life. A good kid. But that had changed over the past year. He was disrespectful, intolerant. He sat on the edge of the bed, wearing gym socks, yellow shorts, and a shirt that read CANDY IS DANDY BUT SEX WON’T ROT YOUR TEETH. He held a car magazine and thumped his foot as the music screamed.

Hunt crossed the room and turned off the stereo. His son looked up, and in that instant Hunt saw what could easily pass for hatred.

“Can’t you knock?”

“I did.”

He turned a page, eyes back on the magazine. “What do you want?”

“You know what happened today?”

“Yeah. I heard. But not from you, thanks. I heard like everybody else did.”

Hunt stepped farther into the room. “Were you out there? At the river?” Silence from his son. Another page turned. “Did you ditch again? We’ve talked about this.”

“Just leave me alone.”

Hunt was looking at a stranger.

“I said, leave me alone.”

Hunt hesitated, and his son stood. Muscles twitched and rolled under his skin. For an instant, Hunt felt his own hackles rise. There was such naked challenge in the boy’s posture. But that impression lasted for little more than a few seconds. Hunt blinked and saw his son the way he’d been not very long ago. A gawky kid, full of curiosity and innocent enthusiasms. A kid who rose at six to make his own breakfast, built kites from balsa and packing paper. Hunt relaxed his posture. “I’ll be downstairs. We need to talk, so take a few minutes and think about what you want to tell me.”

His son ignored him. He crossed the room and started music that followed Hunt all the way down to the kitchen.

Hunt sat on a chair by the kitchen table and called Yoakum. “Any changes?”

“Didn’t we just talk?”

“Yes. And I want to know if anything has changed since then.”

“Nothing. How’s the kid?”

Hunt reached for a bottle of scotch. “I think he wants to kill me.”

“Does he need an alibi? Tell him to call me.”

Hunt sloshed two fingers into a glass, sat back down. “What he needs is his mother. I can’t relate to him anymore.” Hunt took a sip. “He should have gone with her.”

“The kid didn’t have a choice, Clyde. She left and I don’t recall her giving him an invitation to join.”

“I could have forced the issue,” Hunt said.

“He’ll pull out of it.”

“He’s listening to grunge and ready to throw down with his own father.”

“Grunge. Wow. Somebody call the evening news.”

“Ha-ha.” It was not a laugh.

“Stay home,” Yoakum said. “Take care of the kid.”

“The clock’s ticking, John. I’ll be there in ten.”

“Don’t do this again.”

“Do what?” Hunt heard the anger in his voice. Yoakum heard it, too.

“Haven’t you lost enough, Clyde? Truly.”

“What do you mean by that?”

“For God’s sake, man. Put your own kid first for a change.”

Hunt wanted to respond. He wanted to say something fierce and scathing, but Yoakum slammed the phone down. Hunt laid the receiver back on its cradle, took another sip of scotch, then poured the rest of it in the sink. Yoakum was trying to do right. Hunt understood that, so he dipped his head and thought about the real problem. He was addicted to his job, but that was not the whole of it. In the still and dark of the kitchen, Hunt admitted, for once, that he did not much like his own son. He loved him, of course, but he did not like him. Not his attitudes, his beliefs, or his choices.

The boy had changed.

Hunt rinsed out his glass, and when he turned, Allen was standing in the door. They held stares, and the boy was the first to look away. “So I ditched. So what?”

“For starters, it’s against the law.”

“Can you ever just turn it off?” He slid a hand along the arm of his chair. “Why do you have to be a cop all the time? Why can’t you just be a normal dad?”

“Normal dads don’t care if their kids ditch school?”