Blood Men

chapter fifty-nine

Edward sits in the passenger seat saying nothing on the way to the police station. When they arrive, Schroder leads him into an interrogation room and heads back out to grab a couple of coffees and to let Hunter compose himself. The police station is busier than it’s ever been on a Christmas day; the task force to find Jack Hunter is operating at full speed, as are the people searching for the final two bank robbers. It’s only a matter of time now-but of course everything is always just a matter of time.

Seeing the little dead girl was hard. Once again he imagined it was his own daughter, and once again it brought him close to tears, and when he hugged Edward and held him he had no idea he was about to do it before it happened, and no idea of the impact it would have on him. Hunter sobbed into his shoulder, his entire body convulsing, and they stayed that way for what seemed like ages before Hunter pulled himself away.

It was almost seven o’clock in the morning by the time Schroder got home. His family was awake. They hadn’t waited up for him-his daughter had woken early because that’s what Christmas was all about, at least for the kids. His wife had let her open just one present; she was waiting for him to get home before opening the rest. He managed to stay awake for another hour before going to bed, and had got almost four hours’ sleep before his wife came in to wake him. She handed him his cell phone. He didn’t want to answer it but he had to. Witnesses had spotted Edward Hunter that morning at the cemetery where his wife was buried. They’d phoned the police because Edward was carrying his daughter around and his daughter obviously wasn’t just sleeping. Before the phone call was over, there was more news-another body had been found.

A week ago Hunter had everything-a wife, a child, a job, he had dreams, the family had Christmas, they all had a future. It makes Schroder sick to know that on any given day your entire future can change.

He makes his way back toward the interrogation room and has his hand on the door handle, the two cups of coffee balanced in his other hand, when his cell phone rings. He steps back from the door and almost drops both coffees while fumbling for the phone.

“Schroder,” he says.

“Hey, Carl. I hear it’s been a long night,” Tate says.

“You got something for me?”

“Yeah. I know who put Roger Harwick up to stabbing Jack Hunter.”

“Who?”

“You’re not going to believe it,” Tate says, but he’s wrong, because Schroder does. After all-the last twenty-four hours have been nothing but believable.