Allen turned his head. “You know what I mean.”

“A man was killed out at the bridge. You know that. Killed right where you’d been.”

“Hours after I was there.”

“What if something had happened to you? How am I supposed to tell your mom if anything bad ever happens to you?”

“Well, nothing did, so you’re off the hook.”

“You saw Johnny Merrimon out there? Jack Cross?”

“You know I did, or you wouldn’t be asking. That’s what cops do, right? That’s how they interrogate their suspects.”

“Other than today, do you ever see Johnny Merrimon?”

“He’s in junior high. I’m a senior.”

“I know,” Hunt said. “But do you ever see him around? Do you ever talk to him?”

“No one talks to him. He’s a freak.”

Hunt straightened, a coal of anger in the hollow place behind his eyes. “He’s a freak how?”

“He never talks, you know; and he’s got those dead eyes.” Allen rolled his shoulders. “He’s messed up. I mean, twins, you know. How do you get over something like that?”

“What about Tiffany Shore?” Hunt asked. “You know her?”

The boy’s head came around, and his eyes were unforgiving. “It never stops with you, does it?”

“What?”

“The damn job.” His voice spiked. “The damn, fucking job!”

“Son-”

“I’m so sick of hearing about Alyssa and Johnny and what a terrible tragedy it all is. I’m sick of seeing you with that file, looking at her picture, going through it all night after night.” He shoved a finger toward Hunt’s study, where a copy of the Merrimon file had taken up permanent residence in the locked top drawer of his desk. “I’m sick of the way your eyes cloud up and you never hear me talking. I’m sick of hearing you up at three in the morning, pacing and muttering. Sick of your guilt and takeout food and doing my own laundry. Mom left because of your obsession.”

“Now, just a minute.”

“It’s the right word, isn’t it?”

“Your mother understood the demands of my job.”

“I’m not talking about the job. I’m talking about what you bring home every night. I’m talking about your obsession with Johnny’s mother.”

Hunt felt his heart accelerate.

“That’s why she left.”

“You’re wrong,” Hunt said.

“She left because you’re obsessed with that kid’s mom!”

Hunt stepped forward and realized that his right hand was fisted. His son saw it, too, and raised his own hands. His shoulders squared up, and Hunt realized that the kid was big enough to take him.

“You going to hit me?” Allen wiped the back of one fist across the side of his mouth. “Go ahead. Do it. I dare you.”

Hunt stepped back, uncurled his fingers. “Nobody’s hitting anybody.”

“That family is all you care about. Alyssa. Johnny. That woman. And now it’s Tiffany Shore, and it’s going to start all over again.”

“These kids-”

“I know all about these kids! It’s all I ever hear about! And it’s never going to stop.”

“It’s my job,” Hunt said.

“And I’m just your son.”

His voice was subdued, the words explosive. They stared at each other, father and son; then Hunt’s phone trilled in the silence. Caller ID showed that it was Yoakum. Hunt held up a finger. “I have to take this.” He opened the phone. “This had better be good.”

Yoakum was curt. “We made the print on David Wilson’s eyelid.”

“Positive identification?”

“Yeah, and it gets better.”

“How much better?”

“Like you would not believe.”

Hunt looked at his watch, then turned back to his son. He held his eyes and detested the words even as he spoke them. “I’ll be there in ten minutes.” He closed the phone, lifted a hand. “Allen-”

But his son had already turned. He pounded up the stairs and slammed his door. Hunt stared at the ceiling, cursed in a whisper, then left the house as the volume ramped up and his son played the same messed-up song.

The police station was on a side street downtown. Two stories, red brick, functional. Hunt blew through the station doors and found Yoakum on the second floor, bent over a city map. “Tell me,” Hunt said.

“The print is solid. Levi Freemantle. Forty-three years of age. Black male. Six foot five. Three hundred pounds.”

“Damn. I thought the kid was exaggerating.”

“No. He’s big.”

“Why does that name seem familiar?”

“Freemantle?” Yoakum leaned back in his chair. “Never heard it before tonight.”

“Do we have a photo?”

“Not from DMV. He has no driver’s license. Nor does he have a credit card or a bank account. Not that I can find.”

“David Wilson was run off the bridge by a car.”

“Maybe he has a license from another state. Maybe he just doesn’t give a shit.”

“What else do we know?” Hunt asked.

Yoakum rifled some papers. “He popped up on the radar a few years ago. Nothing before that. No arrests. No bank records or utilities or phone service. The guy was a ghost. He probably moved in from another jurisdiction. Since then, we have a number of arrests, a few convictions. He’s done time, but nothing serious. A month here. Two months there. But get this, he walked off of a work detail a week ago.”

“He’s an escaped prisoner? Why haven’t I heard about this?”

“It was in the paper last week, but buried on page nine. He’s low priority, a nonviolent offender. He was not considered a threat. Besides, it’s a county problem.”

“What kind of work detail?”

“Minimum security. Road work on a two-lane out in the country. Litter collection. Weed trimming. He just walked off into the woods.”

“Unbelievable.”

Yoakum smiled, his teeth so smooth and white they looked painted. “Are you ready for the big news?”

“What?”

“He’s done time, right. In and out. Well, get this. He was released from another stint just three days before Alyssa Merrimon was abducted.”

Hunt felt a nail of excitement. “Do not kid me, Yoakum.”

“We have an address. It’s local.”

“What about a warrant?”

“I sent Cross to get the judge out of bed.”

“Has the judge signed off on this yet?”

“He will.”

“You sure about that?”

“She’s white. Her parents are rich.” Yoakum shrugged. “Just a matter of time.”

Hunt looked around the room, cataloging faces. “Come on, Yoakum. You can’t say things like that. We’ve talked about this.”

Yoakum rolled his shoulders, and his voice came surprisingly hard. “The world is what it is, unjust and tragic and full of crying shames. Don’t hate me for it.”

“One of these days your mouth is going to get you in trouble. So keep that shit zipped.”

Yoakum popped gum and looked away. Hunt started reviewing what information they had. Levi Freemantle lived on Huron Street with Ronda Jeffries, a white female, age thirty-two. Hunt entered her name into the computer. Arrested twice for solicitation. No convictions. One bust for possession of a Class A narcotic. Convicted. Served seven months of an eighteen-month sentence. Good behavior. One conviction for public indecency. Simple assault. “Ronda Jeffries,” Hunt said, “what’s her relationship with Freemantle?”

“Shared address is all we know. Could be housemates. Could be more.”

Hunt studied the arrest sheet for Levi Freemantle. It seemed incomplete. “These are bullshit arrests. Trespass. Loitering. Shoplifting, for God’s sake. Nothing violent. No sex.”

“It is what it is.”

The sheet looked like a hundred others, so nondescript that Hunt felt like he knew the guy, like he knew a thousand of them; but six five and three hundred pounds was not something to forget. He double-checked the dates and confirmed that Levi Freemantle had been released from jail three days before Alyssa Merrimon was abducted. He’d walked off an inmate road crew one week before Tiffany Shore’s disappearance. If it was a coincidence, it was a big one. Then there was David Wilson, murdered, who claimed to have found the missing girl. Freemantle’s print was on the body. Johnny’s description matched. The timing. The bend in the river.