When she looked, officers were already falling upon the barn from all sides. There were four, each advancing with a pistol in their hands. Starlight glinting off barrels. The door clapped open. A loud scuffle, and then the shot came like a rupture of yellow light.

“Oh God,” she said.

She staggered out of the house and crumpled to the ground and buried her face in her arms in the dirt. Echo of gunfire. The riven night. Hot summer air. Doyle couldn’t see any sign of Leland inside the house. He crouched beside her.

“Bobbi Jean.”

“Oh God,” she said.

An officer shoved the man out of the barn and into the night, sending him sprawling. Leland was quick. He dove and rolled, but the officer pulled him up instantly with the pistol at his chest. Leland stood with a shout and turned to see his wife, but she was on the dirt, sobbing.

“I’m beggin’ you,” she said into the dirt.

“I’m as sorry as I can be about this,” Doyle said.

Bobbi Jean raised her crushed face to look at him. “Do you know what you’ve done to us? Do you? You don’t get to say sorry.”

Doyle lifted Bobbi Jean to her feet and brought her into the house while his men handcuffed Leland and pushed him into the back of the cruiser. Doyle closed the front door. It was dark in the house. Bobbi Jean wandered off and sat at the kitchen table and turned her face away. Shaking. She reached across her chest and held her palm against her heart. “Oh, Leland,” she said.

“This isn’t your fault,” Doyle said.

She shook her head, sobbing softly.

“You didn’t do anything wrong.”

She shook her head.

Doyle didn’t know what else to do. He went over and switched on a lamp.

“Dammit,” he whispered.

Huddled against the wall in the shabby light was a boy, very thin, in pajamas. He was clutching something in his arms, shielding it with his hands: a small child. Wrapped in a blanket. The boy held the child close to him. He was frozen with fear.

For the love of God.

Doyle had thought maybe the boys were asleep, but now he had a sense that the older boy had been watching the whole time. For God’s sake.

He walked over and squatted slowly. The small child was asleep. Swaddled in white. He looked at the boy. “Hi,” he said. “What’s your name?”

The boy didn’t answer.

“It’s okay,” Doyle said. “I’m not going to hurt you.”

The boy just hung on to his brother. “Who are you?” the boy asked finally.

“I’m a friend.”

XXXI