Page 52 of We Are All Guilty Here

Emmy had thought that the Perv was in his twenties, but Adam Johnathan Huntsinger’s arrest record described him as a black-haired, brown-eyed, forty-nine-year-old male who was six-feet two-inches and 190 pounds. He had one identifying mark: a tattoo of a snake that wrapped around his left forearm. He had never been required to register as a sex offender and had no record of offenses against a minor.

That didn’t mean he was not known to law enforcement.

Six years ago, Adam had spent ninety days in county lock-up after a Verona cop had pulled him over for a busted tail light. Adam hadn’t been able to produce his driver’s license. The cop had noticed a joint in the ashtray of his green 1982 Chevy truck.

Three years later, Adam had earned another thirty days behind bars for driving the same truck through Clayville, again without a license, and swilling from an open container of Jack Daniel’s.

He’d been on and off probation. His employment history was spotty. He’d worked at the factory, then the feed store, then the factory again, and finally, he’d started taking odd jobs around town doing yard work and light construction for people like Millie Clifton.

According to his probation records, his last known address had him living with his parents. His father, Walton, was a dentist who often traveled with a group of volunteers to deliver dental services to underserved communities. Alma, his mother, was a much-loved fourth grade teacher. She suffered from early macular degeneration, which had affected her vision to the point that she could no longer drive herself to work.

Her son dropped her off and picked her up every day at the elementary school.

The same school where Hannah worked as a teacher.

The same school that Madison had attended.

Emmy looked up at the two-story farmhouse where the Huntsingers lived. They were in Elsinore Meadows, former grazing land that straddled the North Falls and Verona city limits. The nearest neighbor was half a mile down the unpaved road. One car was parked in the driveway, a black Jetta with a thick layer of dust from the dirt and gravel. There was a chip taken out of the edge of the trunk like the lid had banged against another piece of metal. Emmy scanned the rest of the car, slowly walking around to the front. The left side of the bumper was scuffed. The plastic streaked to the gray primer beneath the black paint. Narrow, not too deep, the kind of scratch you would expect to see on a vehicle that had struck the back wheel of a bicycle.

Emmy’s heart punched into her throat. “It’s him, Dad. This is the car.”

“Yep.” Gerald’s hand was on his gun as he looked up at the house. “Check the back.”

She unsnapped the safety strap on her Glock as she walked briskly along the front porch, peering into the living-room windows as she passed. She didn’t see anyone inside. Emmy turned when she heard her father checking the front door. The knob clicked. It was locked.

“Open up!” Gerald banged on the door so hard that the house felt like it was shaking. “Police!”

Emmy listened for a response, but she didn’t hear anyone stirring inside. She swung her legs over the railing and dropped down. The grass had been recently mowed. Someone had created a path lined with pea gravel to the concrete stoop on the side of the house. There were two entrances. One up the stairs that led to the kitchen, one down two steps to the basement.

Emmy tried the basement door, but it was locked. She looked in the window. A single floor lamp provided enough light to show the entire space, which was no larger than a cheap motel room. Dark paneling on the walls. Crushed beer cans on thefloor. Overflowing ashtray on the coffee table. Fast-food bags spilling from a trash can. Discarded clothes littering the floor. Xbox hooked up to a giant television. Futon for a bed with a filthy-looking blanket. The door to the bathroom was gone. She could see straight through to the moldy shower. There was no closet, only a pair of gray gym lockers packed with clumsily folded shirts and jeans. It looked like a teenager’s bedroom, but she instinctively knew it belonged to Adam Huntsinger.

She was going to find the bastard.

She wasn’t going to let the FBI pat him on the head for three hours and yo-yo between accusing him of rape and murder and asking him polite questions about his love of yard work. If it took putting a gun to his head, Emmy was going to make Adam Huntsinger tell her what he’d done with Madison and Cheyenne.

“Emmy Lou!” Gerald called from the front.

Emmy could hear another man’s voice as she jogged toward the front of the house. She hadn’t seen Walton Huntsinger since she was a teenager, but he looked almost exactly the same. Big ears, slim build, goofy grin. His hair was wet. He was wearing a bathrobe. He’d obviously been in the shower.

“… just had to wash the road off me,” he was telling Gerald. “I was in West Virginia with the Tooth Troopers. Me and some of my dentist pals go around—”

“Where’s Adam?” Emmy asked.

Walton looked perplexed by the interruption. He gestured toward the driveway. “His truck’s not here.”

“That your car?”

“Yes, the transmission’s been slipping. I’m not one for flying. Had to take a rental the whole way there. I think the clutch is—”

“Dr. Huntsinger,” Emmy said, “it’s imperative we find Adam immediately.”

“Is he in …” Walton’s face went slack. “Of course he’s in trouble. He might be picking up Alma. She’s been in Biloxi this week with some friends from school. Supposed to be back about now.”

Gerald said, “Call her.”

Walton went back into the house and returned with his cellphone. He dialed the number, waited through the rings. “Hey, sugar, it’s me. I just got home. No, the drive wasn’t too bad. Where are you?”

Emmy listened to his tone of voice. It was high-pitched, nervous. He knew that this was serious. He didn’t want to panic his wife.

---