She looks down at the bag in her hand.

I spot a ripe berry growing low on the bush, pull it off, and eat it. "They are good."

"My datt says it's because of all the rain."

I pluck a few more berries and drop them into her bag. "I understand you and Annie are friends."

"She's my best friend."

I nod. "Her mamm and datt told me Annie has some English friends. Did she ever talk about them?"

The girl steps away from me, as if the act of distancing herself will make me and my questions go away. "I don't know anything about that."

I tilt my head to make eye contact. "Are you sure?"

She begins picking berries at a frantic pace, pulling off leaves and small branches and throwing them into the bag.

"You're not in any trouble," I tell her. "Neither is Annie. We just want to find her. Her parents are worried." I pick a few berries and drop them into her bag.

The words seem to get through to her. She lowers her hand and gives me her full attention. "She has too many English friends. She's been riding in their cars. Smoking. You know, Englischer kind of things. I told her it was against the Ordnung, but..."

I nod. "Sometimes young people do things. They make mistakes."

For the first time, she looks at me as if I might not be the enemy.

I'm aware of Tomasetti in the Tahoe a few yards away, waiting, watching us. "Did Annie ever mention a boyfriend?"

She moves a branch aside and pulls off a big purple berry. "Ja."

"Do you know his name?"

She stops what she's doing and looks at me. I see in her eyes a tangle of misery and confusion and the terrible weight of a fear she doesn't understand-all of it tempered by the hope that her friend is okay. "She asked me not to tell."

"We think Annie could be in danger." I wait, but she doesn't respond, so I add, "Honey, you're not in any trouble. Okay? We just want to find her. If you know something, please tell me."

Her brows go together and for the first time I get a glimpse of the full scope of the war waging within her: the need to be loyal to her friend; the tenet to remain separate from me; the need to tell what she knows because Annie could be in danger. "His name is Justin Treece," she says finally.

"Thank you." I pull out my pad and write down the name. "Is there anything else you can tell me that might help us find her?"

She bites her lip. "Annie has a phone," she blurts. "I saw her talking on it."

"A cell phone?"

She nods. "I'm scared for her."

"Why?"

"I just am."

I reach out to touch her, to rea.s.sure her and thank her for her help, but she s.n.a.t.c.hes up her bag and pushes past the bushes with such speed that I hear the stickers snag on her dress. She runs toward the house without looking back.

I watch until she disappears around the side of the house, and then I slide into the Tahoe and tell Tomasetti what I've learned. "Why are the parents always the last to know?" he growls.

"Probably because they don't ask enough questions."

"Or maybe some teenagers are pathological liars."

"Such a cynic." I tsk. "You should try having a little more faith in our youth."

"I could, but there's this pesky little detail called reality." He's already got his phone to his ear, calling G.o.ddard. "We got a name," he says without preamble. "Justin Treece." Tomasetti's face darkens and he scowls. "s.h.i.t. You got an address on him?" He listens for a moment and ends the call.

"That didn't sound good," I say.

Tomasetti drops his phone onto the console and puts the Tahoe in gear. "Treece did a year in Mansfield for beating the h.e.l.l out of his mother."

CHAPTER 6.

Justin Treece lives with his parents in a run-down frame house on the outskirts of Buck Creek. The neighborhood is a downtrodden purlieu of postage stampsize houses with ramshackle front porches and yards with gra.s.s trampled to dirt. Several houses are vacant, the windows either boarded up with plywood or open to the elements. The roof of the house next to the Treece place is fire-damaged; a hole the size of a tractor tire reveals blackened rafters and pink puffs of insulation.

"d.a.m.n, looks like Cleveland," Tomasetti says as we idle past.

"Welcome to the other side of the tracks," I mutter.

A beat-up Toyota pickup truck with oversize tires sits in the driveway next to an old Ford Thunderbird. "Looks like someone's home."

In front of us, G.o.ddard's cruiser pulls over to the curb two houses down from the Treece place, and we park behind him. Tomasetti and I meet him on the sidewalk.

"Vehicles belong to the parents," the sheriff tells us. "Trina drives the Thunderbird. Jack drives the Toyota."

"What about the kid?" Tomasetti asks.

"Last time I stopped him, he was in an old Plymouth Duster. Him and his old man tinker with cars, so it could be in the garage out back."

"Exactly how bad is this kid?" I ask.

"He's only got that one conviction." G.o.ddard shakes his head. "But it is a doozy. To tell you the truth, I think that little b.a.s.t.a.r.d is on his way. In ten years, he'll be in the major league."

"Or in prison," Tomasetti puts in.

G.o.ddard motions toward the house. "The whole lot of them are regulars with the department. Domestic stuff, mostly. Parents get drunk and beat the s.h.i.t out of each other. Kids run wild. It's sad is what it is."

Having been a patrol officer in Columbus for a number of years, I'm all too familiar with those kinds of scenarios. It's a sad and seemingly hopeless cycle, especially for the kids. Too many of them become victims of their environment and end up like their parents-or worse.

"Wouldn't surprise me if this kid is involved with this missing girl," G.o.ddard tells us. "He's got a hot head and a big mouth."

"Bad combination," I say.

"They armed?" Tomasetti asks.

"We searched the place once a few months back and didn't find anything. But nothing would surprise me when it comes to this bunch." G.o.ddard divides his attention between the two of us. "So are you guys packing, or what?"

"Never leave home without it," Tomasetti replies.

I open my jacket just far enough for him to see the leather shoulder holster where I keep my .22 mini-Magnum.

"Well, lock and load, people." He motions toward the house. "Let's go see what Romeo has to say."

We take a sidewalk that's buckled from tree roots and riddled with cracks. A tumbling chain-link fence encircles the front yard. I glance between the close-set houses and see a tiny backyard that's littered with old tires. Beyond, a detached garage with peeling yellow paint and a single broken window separates the yard from the alley.

"Light on in the garage," I say.

"Kid hangs out there a lot. Listens to that weird-s.h.i.t music loud enough to bust your f.u.c.kin' eardrums."

"Do the parents work?" Tomasetti asks as we take the concrete steps to the front door.

G.o.ddard nods. "Jack Treece is a mechanic at the filling station in town. He's good, from what I hear. Probably where the kid got the knack. Trina works down at the bowling alley. Tends bar most nights."

"What about Justin?" I ask.

He shakes his head. "I don't think anyone around here would hire him to tell you the truth. He's got a rep. Most people steer clear."

We reach the front door. A few feet away, a window-unit air conditioner belches water onto the concrete. G.o.ddard knocks and then steps aside, as if expecting someone to shoot through the door.

The door creaks open. I find myself looking at a huge round woman with brown eyes and a tangle of black hair that reaches midway down her back. She's got the kind of face that makes it difficult to guess her age, but I'd put her around forty. It's obvious we wakened her, but she must have been sleeping on the sofa, because it didn't take long for her to answer the door, and she doesn't look like the type to move with any kind of speed.

She's wearing a flowered muumuu that doesn't cover as much of her as I'd like. Her calves are the size of hams and bulge with varicose veins. Swollen toes with thick yellow nails stick out of the ends of pink slippers.

She takes in the sight of us with a mix of hostility and amus.e.m.e.nt. "Sheriff." Her voice is deep and slow, with a hint of the Kentucky hills. "I heard you died."

"Well, no one's told me about it yet." G.o.ddard shows her his identification. "Hope that's not too much of a disappointment."

"Things would get pretty boring round here without you cops f.u.c.kin' with us all the d.a.m.n time."

"Is Justin here?"

Her gaze slides from the sheriff to me and Tomasetti and then back to the sheriff. I see a cunning in its depths that reminds me of big lumbering bear that can transform to a predator capable of tearing a man to shreds with no provocation or warning. She's got cold, empty eyes and an "I don't give a s.h.i.t" air, both of which tell me she has no respect for anything or anyone-including herself-and has a particularly high level of loathing for law enforcement.

"Who wants to know?" she asks.

"Me and these state agents."

"State agents, huh?" She gives me the once-over and makes a sound of disdain. "What'd he do now?"

"We just want to ask him some questions."

"This about that girl gone missing?"

The collective surge of interest is palpable. The sheriff leans forward. I see Tomasetti, who is beside me, crane his head slightly, looking beyond her. "Trina, we just want to talk to Justin," G.o.ddard tells her.

She makes no move to open the door. "I know my rights, Bud. I'm the parent and I want to know why you want to talk to my son."

Tomasetti shoves his identification at her. "Because we asked nicely, and if we have to come back with a warrant, we won't be so nice."

She's not impressed and doesn't even glance at his credentials. "Who the f.u.c.k're you?"

"I'm the guy who's going to f.u.c.k you over if you don't open the G.o.dd.a.m.n door."

G.o.ddard's mouth sags open wide enough for me to see the fillings in his molars. Trina Treece doesn't even blink. The flash of amus.e.m.e.nt in her eyes shocks me. Tomasetti is about as amusing as an autopsy. Most people do their utmost to concede to his wishes, especially if he's in a nasty mood. He might be a cop, but he possesses an air of unpredictability that keeps even the densest individuals from crossing him. This woman doesn't even seem to notice-and I don't believe it's because she's dense.

She smirks at the sheriff. "Where'd you find this charmer?"

"If I were you, I'd just open the door," the sheriff says tiredly. "We really need to speak with your son."

"Well, h.e.l.l, all right." Her triceps flap when she swings open the door. "C'mon in. Wipe your d.a.m.n feet."

Tomasetti goes through the door first. He brushes by her without a word, his right hand never far from his holster, and he doesn't bother wiping his feet. I go in next, swipe each shoe against the throw rug at the threshold. G.o.ddard brings up the rear, and actually looks down while he diligently wipes his shoes on the rug.

The interior of the house is hot and stuffy and smells vaguely of fish. A swaybacked sofa draped with a dingy afghan separates the small living room from an even smaller dining area. A floor fan blows stale air toward a narrow, dark hall. A sleek high-def television is mounted on the wall. It's tuned to an old Bugs Bunny cartoon, the volume turned low. From where I stand, I can see into a dimly lit kitchen with cluttered counters and a sinkful of dirty dishes. Beyond is a back door, its window adorned with frilly yellow curtains. A folded pizza box sticks out of the top of a stainless-steel trash can.

For a full minute, the only sounds are the rattle of the air conditioner and Trina Treece's labored breathing.

"Where is he?" G.o.ddard asks.

"I reckon he's out back with that worthless old man of his." But she's looking at Tomasetti as if trying to decide which b.u.t.tons to push and how hard to push them. Tomasetti stares back at her with a blank expression that gives away absolutely nothing. Oh boy.

A sound from the hall draws my attention. Two girls, about ten years old, peek around the corner at us. I see shy, curious faces and young eyes that have already seen too much.

Trina hauls her frame around. "I told you two idiots to stay in your room!"

Both girls have the same wild black hair as their mother. But all likeness ends there. The girls are thin and pretty and seemingly undamaged by the environment in which they live. Watching them, I can't help but to compare these kids to the girls at the King farm. Innocent girls whose lives are filled with promise but whose future will be determined by the guidance they receive from their parents and the vastly different worlds in which they reside.

I think of all the life lessons that lie ahead for these two girls, and I wonder if they'll be able to count on either parent to guide them through it. I wonder if they'll survive.

"Who are these people, Mama?" the taller of the two girls asks.

"This ain't your concern, you nosy little s.h.i.t." Trina crosses to the sofa, picks up an empty soda can, and throws it at the girl. The can bounces off the wall and clangs against the floor. "Now go get your d.a.m.n brother. Tell him the f.u.c.kin' cops are here."

Next to me, Tomasetti makes a sound of reprehension, and I know he's on the verge of saying something he shouldn't. His face is devoid of emotion, but I know him well enough to recognize the anger burgeoning beneath the surface of all that calm, and I'm reminded that his own daughters were about the same age as these two girls when they were murdered.

"Let it go," I whisper.

He doesn't acknowledge the words, doesn't even look at me. But he doesn't make a move. I figure that's the best I can hope for.