The hospital parking lot could not handle all of the news trucks. They’d packed in so dense that Charlie had to fight to keep a lane open in case an ambulance needed to deliver a patient. That was Charlie’s job, guarding the parking lot, tending to the door and keeping people out. He stood under the portico, blinking under the bright lights.

This was his fifth interview.

He raised an arm, heedless of the crowd, eyes on the reporter from Channel Four. She was as pretty in real life as she was on television. She looked like a movie poster. “Right there,” Charlie pointed. “The car came in that entrance, all erratic-like. Weaving. It hit that piece of concrete, bounced off, then ended up here.” Charlie moved his arm again, pointing to the place he stood. “Luckily, I’m quick on my feet.”

The reporter nodded, and her face showed none of her doubt. Charlie carried enough belly for three men. “Go on,” she said.

Charlie scratched at a thin spot on his head. “Well, that was about it,” he offered.

The reporter smiled so brightly, Charlie felt the glow. “It was Johnny Merrimon behind the wheel?”

“That’s right. I remembered his face from last year. Hard to forget it, really. They had pictures of his twin sister up pretty much everywhere. They look just alike. He was all cut up, though, and dirty. The car was just full of blood.”

The reporter cut her eyes to the camera. “Johnny would be thirteen…”

“Had no business being behind the wheel…”

“But the girl with him was Tiffany Shore.”

Charlie nodded. “The one that went missing. Yes. That was her. She was in the newspaper, too.”

“Did Tiffany appear to be injured?” A light kindled in the reporter’s eyes. Painted lips parted to show the glisten of her perfect teeth.

Charlie took his hand off of his head. “Don’t know about injured. She was handcuffed and out of it. Bawling. Started screaming when we tried to get her out of the car. She wouldn’t let go of Johnny’s arm.”

“And what about Johnny Merrimon. What was his state?”

“His state? Damn. He looked like a wild Indian.”

“A wild Indian?”

The reporter shoved the microphone closer. Charlie swallowed, took his eyes from her mouth. “Yeah. He’s got that jet black hair, you know, and those black eyes. He’s lean as a ferret, and didn’t have no shirt on. Had feathers and bones around his neck-I saw a skull, swear to God, a skull-and his face was done up all black and red, kind of striped.” He made a motion with spread fingers. “You know, like face paint.”

The reporter became excited. “War paint?”

“He just looked dirty to me. Dirty and white-eyed and wild, breathing like he’d just run ten miles.”

“Was he injured?”

“Cut up, mostly. Sliced, I’d call it. Just sliced and all covered with blood and dirt. He had trouble letting go of the wheel. They had to pull him out of the car, too. It was a mess, I’ll tell you.” He nodded. “A mess.”

She pushed the microphone closer. “Is it your understanding that Johnny Merrimon saved Tiffany Shore from the man who’d abducted her?”

“I don’t know about that.” He paused to stare at the reporter’s cleavage. “Neither one of them looked very saved to me.”

Hunt stood in the bright hall, his reflection a twisted curve in the gleam of the well-scrubbed floor. A vein thumped in his temple, and a hot, acid flush rose from his chest. He was talking to his boss, the chief of police, and trying hard not to lay the man out.

“How in hell did you miss it?” The Chief was a slope-shouldered man with an expanding waistline, a reputation for intolerance, and a politician’s instinct for survival. Normally, he had the sense to stay out of Hunt’s way, but this was not a normal day. “For God’s sake, Hunt, the man’s a known pedophile.”

Hunt counted silently to three. A doctor passed, then a thin nurse with an empty gurney. “We interviewed him twice. He gave us permission to search his home and we did. It was clean. He’s not the only known offender. There were others deemed higher risk. Manpower is limited.”

“That’s not good enough.”

Hunt ticked off points on a finger. “His last offense was nineteen years ago. He’s been off probation for sixteen of those years. There are other registered offenders with worse records, and no way for us to know about the shed. No permits or utilities. Nothing on the tax maps. It’s off the grid, totally dark. There could be ten thousand sheds just like it in this county and we’d never know. Then there’s Levi Freemantle. I’ve never seen a lead that looked more solid. David Wilson said he found the girl. Freemantle’s print was on Wilson’s body-”

“I’m being crucified out there.” The Chief stabbed a finger toward the front of the hospital. “On national television.”

“Well, that’s beyond my control.”

The Chief’s eyes narrowed. His voice fell dangerously. “You’re enjoying this, aren’t you?”

“Don’t be absurd.”

“They want to know how that kid found Tiffany Shore when we couldn’t. He’s thirteen, for God’s sake, and they want to make him a hero.”

“We don’t know what happened out there.”

“I look like an idiot! And speaking of the kid, thanks, too, for giving Ken Holloway an excuse to chew on my ass. I’ve had four calls from city hall. Four, including two from the mayor. Holloway is making serious allegations. He’s threatening a lawsuit.”

Hunt’s anger kicked up a notch. “He assaulted one of your officers. You should care about that.”

“Cry me a river, Hunt. He put a finger on your chest.”

“He was interfering with my investigation.”

“Interfering with something.” The Chief’s face made it plain that words were left unsaid.

Hunt’s shoulders squared. “What does that mean?”

“Holloway maintains that you have a personal interest in Katherine Merrimon. An emotional interest.”

“That’s ridiculous.”

“Is it? He says you’ve been harassing him. He says you antagonized him.”

“He was becoming aggressive. I acted as I saw fit.”

“Officer Taylor confirmed Holloway’s side of it.”

“She would never say that.”

“She didn’t have to say it, you idiot. In her small but entire life, Officer Taylor has never been able to hide an honest emotion. I just had to ask the question.”

Hunt stepped away, and the Chief continued. “What I care about is how your actions reflect on me, so I’m going to ask you straight out. Do you have a thing for Katherine Merrimon?”

“Just tell me what you want me to do.”

“I want you to answer the damn question.”

“The question is despicable.”

Seconds stretched. The Chief was breathing hard. “Maybe you should take some time off.”

“Forget it.”

The Chief pushed out another hard breath, and for an instant he looked sympathetic. “Look, Clyde. We never found Alyssa. And the way this case has unfolded… people are asking questions.”

“About what?”

The same look of sympathy. “About your competence. I’ve told you before, you take these matters too personally.”

“No more so than any other cop would.”

“This morning, you were yelling at a crowd of bystanders. You kicked a paint can all over your own crime scene.” The Chief looked away, then shook his head. “It’s been a long year. I think you need a break.”

“Are you firing me?”

“I’m asking you to take a few weeks off. A month at most.”

“No.”

“Just like that?”

“Just like that.”

The sympathy vanished. The anger surged back. “Then let me tell you what you are going to do. First of all, you’re going to take any heat that comes from this entire, screwed-up business. If the press wants a whipping boy, I intend to give them you, and I expect you to take it. Same thing with city government. Same thing with Tiffany Shore’s parents.”