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.”
“Why would I agree to that?”
“Because I’ve been carrying you for a year.”
“Bullshit.”
“Second.” He raised his voice, slapped two fingers into an open palm. “I want you to back off Ken Holloway. The man has more money than God, more friends in high places than either of us could dream up, and I don’t need that kind of headache. Other than sleeping with a woman that apparently holds some interest for you, he’s never done an evil thing in his life, far as I can tell. No arrests. No charges of any kind. So if he wants to put his finger on your chest, you take it like a man. And if he wants to slum it with Katherine Merrimon”-the Chief put one finger squarely on Hunt’s chest, shoved hard-“you let him.”
Hunt watched the Chief storm off. He was a little man, with a little man’s priorities, and Hunt had larger concerns; so he buried the conversation, flushed it. Forgot it.
Ah, crap. Who was he kidding?
Threading his way through the winding corridors, he eventually reached the pediatric hall where they’d placed Johnny. Hunt was not allowed to see the boy, but he hoped to find the doctor and a change of heart. What he found instead was an austere woman who sat, knees clenched together, on a bench down the hall from Johnny’s room. She had gray hair, pulled back, and a severely cut suit. Hunt recognized her.
Social Services.
Shit.
The woman caught his eye and began to rise, but he turned away before she could say anything. He made it to the lobby, but stopped when he heard Katherine’s voice. “Detective Hunt?”
Standing beside the elevator bank, she looked like hell. Hunt crossed to her side, and they found themselves strangely alone in the crowded room. “Katherine,” Hunt said. “How’s Johnny?”
She rubbed one arm, then lifted hair from her eyes and Hunt saw that she was on the verge of a breakdown. “Not good. He was cut seven times, two of them pretty deep.” She traced a finger beneath each eye before the tears spilled out. “It took two hundred and six stitches to close the wounds. He’ll be scarred for life.”
Hunt looked beyond her. “Is he awake?”
“Not now. He was, briefly.”
“Did he say anything at all?”
“He asked about Alyssa. He wanted to know if we found her.” Hunt looked away, but she put a hand on his arm. “Is it the same man?”
She was asking if Burton Jarvis was the man who took her daughter. “It’s too early to say.”
“Is it?” She squeezed, and Hunt saw the hope and dread that filled her up.
“I don’t know,” he said. “We’re looking into it. We’re checking. When I know something, you’ll know it, too. I promise.”
She bobbed her head. “I should get back… in case he wakes up.”
She made to leave and Hunt stopped her. He thought hard before he spoke. “Katherine.”
“Yes?”
“Social Services is going to want to speak with you.”
“DSS? I don’t understand.”
“Johnny was gone all night. In your car. He was almost killed by a known pedophile.” Hunt paused. “I don’t think they’ll let Johnny stay with you.”
“I don’t understand.” Then, quickly, “I won’t allow it.”
“He came in wearing feathers. He had rattlesnake rattles and a skull on a string around his neck. I don’t know a judge that would let him stay with you. You’ve seen the press outside? That’s national media. CNN. FOX. They’re calling him the Little Chief, the Wild Indian. It’s a story now, and that makes it political. DSS will take action because they have no choice.”
The defiance melted. “What can I do?”
“I don’t know.”
“Please.” Her fingers tightened on his arm. “Please.”
Hunt looked up and down the room. In seventeen years, he’d never crossed the line, but here it was, as clear as any line he’d ever seen. In full control of himself, Hunt stepped over it. Why? Because some things mattered more.
“They’ll do a full evaluation,” he said. “That starts with a surprise inspection of your home.”
“I don’t-”
“You need to go home now. You need to clean up.” Her hand moved up, touched a strand of limp hair. Hunt paused, but some things had to hurt. “You need to lose the drugs.”
“I don’t-”
Hunt stopped her. “Please don’t lie to me, Katherine. Right now, I’m your friend, not a cop. I’m one friend trying to help another.”
She held his gaze for as long as she could, then looked down.
“Katherine, look at me.” She tilted her face, and it was naked in the harsh light. “Trust me.”
She blinked away dewdrop tears, and her words came with effort. “I need a ride.”
Hunt peered through the glass doors, took in the crowd. The reporters. The cameras. He found Katherine’s hand with his own. “This way.” Hunt led her down successive corridors, onto an elevator, then outside through a double door at the back marked FOR DELIVERIES ONLY. “Car’s this way.”
“What about my car?”
“Impounded. Evidence.”
Twenty feet into the hot sun, she took back her hand. “I can manage.” But when they got to the car, Hunt saw that she clearly could not. A flush burned her cheeks and her fingers twisted white. She pressed against the door and kept her head down.
At her house, Hunt pulled the car as close to her door as he could. “Do you have money for a cab? To get back to the hospital?” She nodded. “My number?”
She swept hair from her face, met his gaze, and some small pride glinted in her eyes. “I have several of your cards.” She opened her door and heat spilled in. He watched her legs swing away, her hand on the top of the door. When she leaned in, her voice was clipped. “I love my son, detective.”
“I know.”
“I’m a good mother.”
She was trying to convince herself, but the wide pits at the center of her eyes made the statement a lie. Johnny was in the hospital, and she was still stoned. “I know you are,” Hunt said; but that’s not what he believed.
I know you were.
I hope you will be again.
Hunt put the car in reverse.
She stood in the dirt and watched him go.
Thirty minutes later, Hunt was at the shed, working the scene with Yoakum and several techs. His back was to the house. “Heads up,” Yoakum told him.
“What?”
“Chief.”
Hunt looked down the trail and saw the Chief push through the last bit of low vegetation. Two assistants followed him. A uniform held branches out of his way. “I just did this,” Hunt said.
“Good things come in fat packages.”
Hunt crossed his arms over his chest. If the Chief decided to check up, that was fine, but Hunt wasn’t going to look happy about it. The Chief stopped fifteen feet away to survey the scene, hands on hips, chin at an angle.
“Did he see this in a movie?” Yoakum whispered.
“Button it, John.”
“It’s Patton. Shit. The man thinks he’s George C. Scott.”
The Chief lurched into motion and closed the last gap, his small entourage bunching up behind him. He nodded once to Yoakum and showed Hunt his serious eyes. “Walk with me.”
Hunt turned his palms, taking in the dense woods, the thick undergrowth. “Where?”
The Chief studied the dense growth. “Give us a minute.” His assistants melted away. “You, too, Yoakum.”
“Me?” Hand on his chest. Eyes shocked.
“Get lost.”
Yoakum got behind the Chief before he started goose-stepping, but Hunt was in no mood for humor. He stared at the Chief and the Chief stared back. Tension ramped up, but the Chief broke first. “About earlier. Maybe I was out of line.”
“Maybe.”
“And maybe I wasn’t.”
The Chief studied the tall trees, the wall of forest. The shed was a speck in a sea of green. “If you tell me that you’re not too close to this, I’ll accept it.”
The gaze held. “It’s just another case.”
“Okay.” A tight nod. “We’ll play it like that, but consider this your absolute last final fucking chance. Now, before I change my mind and fire you for being such a poor liar, tell me what you’ve learned out here.”
Hunt pointed toward the house, which was invisible beyond the trees. “We found where Jarvis tapped into his circuit box. The cable is buried two inches down. The shed is completely off the grid. And you saw the trail in. It’s barely a footpath. None of this is visible from the road or the house. No permits. No utilities. It’s a shell. A dead zone.”
“Any luck with the kids?”
“They’re sedated. The doctor won’t let me see them.”
The Chief stepped into the shed and Hunt followed. He felt his skin crawl. “As you can see, the walls are padded with mattresses, probably for sound baffling. The windows are packed with fiberglass insulation and sealed with industrial plastic. Again, to muffle sound, but also to keep the site black. Look at this.” Hunt stepped to the far wall and pointed at a small, ragged hole. “This is where she tore out the hook that held her cuffs.” The hook had been bagged and numbered. Hunt picked it up and felt cold metal through the slick plastic. He held it out for the Chief, who touched it once, then knelt and placed a finger on the hole in the wall. It was a shallow hole. The concrete was crumbly and dry. “Tough kid,” Hunt said.
“So how’d she get out of the shed?”
Hunt led the Chief to the door and stepped outside. He gestured at the lock. It was a Yale, big and brass and solid. It was in the locked position, secured to the steel, U-shaped hasp. “He locked the lock, but failed to lock the door.”
“Accident?” The Chief lifted the lock, let it drop and swing. “Or arrogance?”
“Does it matter?”
A shrug. “The gun?”
“Unknown. It could have been in the shed all along. She could have found it in his house. That was unlocked, too.” Both men looked again in the direction of the house. Nothing was visible through the trees. Before dawn, though, with lights burning, Tiffany would have seen it. “I’m guessing he was intoxicated. We found liquor and drugs. The autopsy should tell us.”
“Any sign that there may have been other children?” The Chief kept his tone professional.
“Are you asking about Alyssa Merrimon?”
“Not specifically.”
The Chief was unflinching, his eyes implacable, as Hunt peered into the deep woods. “We’ll need the dog,” Hunt said. “If she’s buried out there, I want to find her.”
“Not much light.”
Hunt’s voice was bleak. “I’ve already made the call.”