Finally we reach the Luxfords’ house. Protestors are trampling the front garden and pounding on the windows and the front door of the house. A group of six are rocking the SUV from side to side, trying to flip it. The police haven’t made it this deep into the crowd yet. They’re too scared to leave their APC and their line of shields.

Now that we’re so deep in the crowd, I realise that Thistle might be the only police officer within a hundred yards.

‘The county cops will try to disperse the crowd with tear gas any minute,’ she says. ‘If Luxford’s here, we have to find him ASAP.’

I look around. It’s impossible. There must be a thousand people here, half of them with baseball caps over their eyes or bandanas covering their mouths. Even if Shannon cares enough about his parents to come help them, we’d never know he was here.

‘Put the badge down,’ I say. ‘These guys could turn on you.’

Thistle doesn’t. ‘Police!’ she bellows. ‘Step away from the vehicle!’

She radiates such authority that four of the six men rocking the car immediately put their hands up.

Someone else—a skinny meth head with a scraggle of chestnut hair—turns around and spits in Thistle’s face. She barely flinches.

I grab the guy by the front of his tattered T-shirt and bare my teeth. He realises that I’m not a cop. Not someone who isn’t allowed to hurt him. His eyes go wide.

‘Blake!’ Thistle snaps. ‘Blake!’

I let the guy go. He slithers away into the crowd.

I nearly bit him, right in front of Thistle. It’s dangerous for me to be here.

I suddenly realise that one of the screaming people is Joseph Luxford. He’s standing on the lawn in flannelette pyjamas, his socks caked with mud. He’s bellowing, ‘Get the hell away from my house, you fucking animals!’

No one takes any notice. He just looks like another crazy protestor.

Leaving Thistle behind, I push through the crowd and grab Joseph. ‘Is Shannon here?’

He screams at me, ‘Get away from my goddamned house!’

‘Hey! Remember me?’ I step back so he can focus on my face. ‘Timothy Blake, FBI. If your son is here, he’s in real danger. Have you seen him?’

‘You’re police,’ he says, realising. ‘Do something about these sons of bitches!’

‘Where’s your wife?’ I ask. Maybe she’ll be willing to listen.

Before Joseph can answer, I hear breaking glass and a cheer from behind me. A black man in an army jacket has smashed the lounge room window with a baseball bat. A white guy with a shaved head and a goatee is clicking a lighter.

Joseph sees. ‘No!’ he screams. ‘Don’t!’