The Last Child

by John Hart

  —

  In the car, Johnny felt it when his mother began to shake. It started in her arms, moved to her shoulders.

  “Mom?”

  She ignored him and dug into her purse. It was dark in the low part of the car, so she held the bag up until headlights struck it. Johnny saw one eye when she tilted her head, then he heard the rattle and click of pills in a plastic bottle. She shook pills into her hand, tossed back her head and swallowed them dry. The bag fell back into darkness and her head hit the headrest hard enough to bounce once. Her voice, when she spoke, was devoid of emotion. “Don’t ever do that again,” she said.

  “Ditch school?” Johnny asked.

  “No.”

  A difficult pause. Ice in Johnny’s chest.

  “Don’t make me hope.” She turned her head. “Don’t you ever do that to me again.”

  —

  They got the tent up before the bottom fell out of the sky. Hunt squatted next to the body as the tent rattled and shook. The material snapped so loudly that he had to shout to be heard. Two uniformed officers held lights; a CSI tech and the medical examiner knelt on the other side of the body. Over Hunt’s shoulder, one of the uniforms said: “Water will be running under soon.” Hunt agreed. Thunderstorms in late spring rolled in hard and left fast, but they could drop a lot of water. It was a bad break.

  Hunt studied the blood-streaked face, then the splinter of bone where the arm bent at right angles. Grime caked the dead man’s clothes; it was black, almost green, ground into the cloth and into the treads of his shoes. A smell lingered, something organic, something that went beyond river water and recent death. “What do we know?” Hunt asked the medical examiner.

  “He’s fit. Well muscled. Mid-thirties, I’d say. Wallet’s with one of your men there.”

  Hunt looked at Detective Cross, who held a wallet in a clear plastic evidence bag. Cross was a big man whose face looked seamed and heavy behind the bright light. He was thirty-eight and had been a cop for over ten years. He’d made his reputation as a hard-nosed patrol sergeant who showed great courage under fire. He’d been a detective for less than six months. Cross spoke as he handed over the wallet. “Driver’s license says his name is David Wilson. Organ donor. No corrective lenses. He lived on an expensive street, carried a library card and a stack of restaurant receipts: some from Raleigh, some from Wilmington. No sign of a wedding ring. No cash. Two credit cards, still in the wallet.”

  Hunt looked at the wallet. “You touched this?”

  “Yes.”

  “I’m lead detective on this case, Cross. You understand that?” His voice was tight, forcibly controlled.

  Cross drew back his shoulders. “Yes, sir.”

  “You’re new at this. I understand. But being lead on this case means that I’m responsible. We catch the killer or not. We find the girl or we don’t.” His eyes remained fierce. A finger came up. “However this ends, I have to live with it. Night after night, it’s on me. You understand?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Don’t ever touch evidence at my crime scene without permission. Do it again and I will fuck you up.”

  “I was just trying to help.”

  “Get out of my tent.” Hunt shook with anger. If he lost another girl …

  Cross left with a guilty step. Hunt forced a deep breath, then returned his attention to the body. The shirt was just a T-shirt, gray and stinking of sweat and blood and green black filth; the belt was plain brown and nondescript, with a brass buckle that showed heavy scarring. His pants were made of tough, worn cotton. One eye was partially open, and it looked flat and dull in the bright light.

  “Hot as hell in this tent.” The medical examiner’s name was Trenton Moore. Small and sparely built, he had thick hair, large pores, and a lisp that grew more pronounced the louder he had to speak. He was young, smart, and dynamite on the stand, even with the lisp. “I think he’s a rock climber.”

  “I beg your pardon.”

  Dr. Moore gestured with his chin. “Look at his hands.”

  Hunt studied David Wilson’s hands. They showed calluses, scratches, and abrasions. The nails were clipped and even but dirty. They could belong to any construction worker he’d ever met. “What about them?”

  The medical examiner straightened one of the fingers. “See that callus?” Hunt looked at the fingertip, a thick pad of tough skin. Dr. Moore flattened out the other fingers; they all had the same callus. “I had a roommate in college, a climber. He’d do fingertip chin-ups from the doorjamb. Sometimes he’d just hang there and chat. It was sick. Here, feel that.”

  Dr. Moore offered the hand and Hunt touched the callus. It felt like shoe leather. “My roommate had fingertips just like that.” He pointed. “The upper body musculature is consistent. Overdeveloped forearms. Significant scarring on the hands. Of course, we’re just shooting the shit here. I can’t make any official comment until I get him on the table.”

  Hunt studied the placement of the hands, crossed over the dead man’s chest. The legs straight and side by side. “Somebody moved him,” he said.

  “Maybe. We won’t know anything for certain until the autopsy.”

  Creases appeared in Hunt’s forehead. He gestured at the body. “You don’t think he landed in that position, do you?”

  The medical examiner grinned, suddenly looking all of twenty-five. “Just kidding, Detective. Trying to keep it light.”

  “Well, don’t.” Hunt gestured at the shattered arm, the crooked leg. “You think those were broken when the car hit him or when he came over the bridge?”

  “Do you know for a fact that he was struck on the bridge?”

  “His motorcycle was definitely moved postimpact. Somebody pushed it down an embankment. A couple of branches broken off a tree and tossed on top. Somebody would have found it eventually. We found paint scrapings on the bridge that match the color of the gas tank. I suspect that chemistry will match. And there’s the kid. He saw it.”

  “Is he here?” Dr. Moore asked.

  Hunt shook his head. “I sent him home with a uniform. Him and his mother. They don’t need to be here for this.”

  “He’s how old?”

  “Thirteen.”

  “Reliable?”

  Hunt thought about it. “I don’t know. I think, maybe. He’s a sharp kid. A little messed up, but sharp.”

  “What’s his time line?”

  “He says the body came over the rail two, maybe two and a half hours ago.”

  The examiner rolled his shoulders. “That’s consistent. No lividity yet.” He returned his attention to the body, bending low over the dead man’s face. He pointed at the bloody cross on the forehead. “Don’t see that very often.”

  “What do you make of it?”

  “I deal in bodies, not motives. There’s blood on the eyelids, too. You may get a print.”

  “How do you figure?”

  “Just a hunch. Right size, right shape.” Dr. Moore shrugged a final time. “Whoever killed this guy, I don’t think he’s very smart.”

  —

  When Hunt emerged from the tent, the rain soaked his clothes, his hair. He looked at the bridge and tried to imagine the crunch of metal, the arc of the body, and how it must have been for the boy chosen by fate to bear witness. Hunt stooped for Johnny’s bike, which had been cast aside when the tent went up. It made a sucking noise when he pulled it from the mud. Brown water ran off the pocked metal and Hunt walked it to the dry space beneath the bridge. A handful of cops sheltered there, some with cigarettes, only one of them looking very busy. Cross. He stood apart from the others, a light in one hand, Johnny Merrimon’s map in the other.

  Hunt walked over, still angry about the wallet, but Cross spoke first.

  “I’m sorry,” he said, and looked it.

  Hunt thought of the year since he’d lost Alyssa: the nightmares, the futility. It was not fair to take it out on Cross. He was young at this, and he’d have his own black nights, given time. Hunt forced a smil
e. It wasn’t much, but it was all he had. “Where’d you find that?” He pointed at the map.

  Cross had a square jaw under brush-cut hair. He lowered the map and stabbed his flashlight downriver. “It was with the kid’s bike.” Cross flinched. “It’s not evidence, is it?”

  It was, but Hunt told himself to relax. “I’ll need that back.”

  “No problem.” Hunt turned to go, but Cross stopped him. “Detective …”

  Hunt stopped and turned. Cross looked tall in the gloom, his skin olive green, his eyes intent.

  “Listen,” Cross said. “This has nothing to do with nothing, okay, but you probably should know about it. You know my son?”

  “Gerald? The ball player? Yeah, I know him.”

  Cross’s mouth drew down at the corners. “No, not Gerald. The other one. Jack. My youngest.”

  “No. I don’t know Jack.”

  “Well, he was out here today with the Merrimon kid. He ditched school, too. But look, he was long gone before any of this happened. The school called me after the lockdown. I found the kid at home, watching cartoons.”

  Hunt thought about it. “Do I need to talk to him?”

  “He’s clueless, but you’re welcome to talk to him.”

  “Doesn’t seem relevant,” Hunt said.

  “Good. Because he tells me that your boy was out here, too.”

  Hunt shook his head. “I don’t think so.”

  “Lunchtime or thereabouts. Your boy and a couple of his friends.” Cross’s face remained inscrutable. “Just thought you should know.”

  “And Jack is certain—”

  “My son is lazy, not stupid.”

  “Okay, Cross. Thanks.” Hunt began to turn, when Cross stopped him again.

  “Listen, speaking of relevant. This guy who assaulted the Merrimon kid, the black guy with the scars on his face.”

  “What about him?”

  “You’re assuming that he had nothing to do with what happened here? With this victim? Is that right?”

  “With this murder?”

  “Right.”

  “No,” Hunt said. “I don’t see how he could. He was a mile or more downriver when it happened.”

  “Are you sure about that?”

  “Your point?”

  “We’re assuming that three men came into contact with Johnny Merrimon. The dead man, Wilson, whoever drove the car that ran Wilson off the bridge, and the big black guy with the scarred face. Is that accurate?”

  “That’s our working theory, yes.”

  “But the kid didn’t see the driver of the car. He saw a shape, a shadow, but he can’t actually identify the driver, he can’t say if it was the black guy or not.” Cross raised the map. “This is a tax map for this side of town, and that’s where the detail is. In town. Streets, neighborhoods. But here, top right, just on the edge. This is the river and this”—he pointed—“this is where we are. See the bridge?”

  “I see it.”

  “Now follow the river.”

  Hunt saw it immediately. Just south of the bridge, the river bent into a tight loop; it wrapped around a narrow finger of land that was over a mile long but couldn’t be more than a quarter mile across. Hunt felt a hard spike of anger, not at Cross, but at himself. “The trail follows the river,” Hunt said.

  “If the Merrimon kid stayed on the trail, he would need to cover a lot of ground to reach the place where he was grabbed, say ten or fifteen minutes at a dead run.” Cross tapped a finger on the map. “If I left the trail and cut across here, I could walk to that same place in five minutes.”

  “Cut through the woods, and it’s close.”

  “Really close.”

  Hunt looked out at the tent, a blur in the drumming rain. The man had been run off the road, crushed. “If David Wilson was killed because he learned something—”

  “Knew something about the missing girl …”

  Hunt bit down. “The man that killed him would want Johnny dead, too. And if he knew the way the river runs—”

  “He could cross here and wait for the boy. Johnny runs for twelve, fifteen minutes. The killer walks for five, and there he is when Johnny comes around the corner.”

  “Damn.” Hunt straightened. “Get on the radio. I want an all-points on a large black male, forty to sixty, with severe scarring on the right side of his face. His car will have visible damage, probably to the left front fender. Inform dispatch that he’s wanted in connection with the homicide of David Wilson but may also be linked to the abduction of Tiffany Shore. Use caution in apprehending. We need to question him. Get that out now.”

  Cross pulled out his radio and called it in.

  Hunt waited, and another wave of anger rolled over him. The past year had worn him thin, made him sloppy. He should have seen the river issue—the way it bent like that—not heard it from some rookie detective. But it was done. The girl was what mattered, so it had to be done. He let it go, drilled in on the matter at hand. Tiffany was missing for less than a day, eight hours, almost nine. This time, he would bring the kid home. He clenched his fists and he swore it.

  This time it would be different.

  He looked at Johnny’s bike, heard the boy’s voice in his head.

  Promise?

  Hunt reached for the large, brown feather that hung below the seat of Johnny’s bike. It was tattered and sad looking, gritty between his fingers. He stroked it smooth.

  Promise.

  Behind him, Cross lowered the radio. “Done,” he said.

  Hunt nodded.

  “What do you have there?”

  Hunt let the feather droop back on the cord that secured it. It swung once, then stuck on the wet metal. “Nothing,” he said. “A feather.”

  Cross stepped closer and lifted the feather.

  “This is an eagle feather.”

  “How do you know that?”

  Cross shrugged, looked embarrassed. “I was born in the mountains. My grandmother is half Cherokee. She was into all that totem stuff.”

  “Totem stuff?”

  “You know. Rituals and sacred plants.” He lifted a hand toward the river. “The river for purity. Snakes for wisdom. Stuff like that.” He shrugged. “I always thought it was kind of bullshit.”

  “Totems?” Hunt repeated.

  “Yeah.” He gestured at the feather. “That’s good magic.”

  “What kind of magic?”

  “Strength. Power.” Lightning thumped and he let the feather fall. “Only chiefs carry eagle feathers.”

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  In the back of the patrol car, Johnny’s mother slumped against his shoulder. Her head rolled when the curves came fast, bounced when the tires hit rough pavement. The river was behind them, the dead guy, too, and what was left of Johnny’s faith in the wisdom of cops. Hunt refused to consider that this could still be about Alyssa, and that had made Johnny angry.

  Maybe!

  He’d said it loud, then repeated it when Hunt’s eyes went soft.

  Maybe it is!

  But Hunt was busy and had his own ideas. He’d grown short with Johnny’s insistence, then declined further discussion and ordered them home.

  Leave it alone, he’d said. This is not your problem.

  But the cop was wrong. Johnny felt it in his heart. It was his problem.

  The patrol car stopped in the driveway. Rain hammered on the metal roof and Johnny studied the house, the light that faltered in the small, muddy yard. Shadows moved inside. Ken’s car sat in the drive; Uncle Steve’s did, too. The pills had taken his mother. Her eyes were closed, and small sounds tripped past her lips. Johnny hesitated, and the patrolman turned in his seat, his face distorted behind the glass divider covered with handprints and dried spit. “She okay?” he asked.

  Johnny nodded.

  “Well, this is it, kid.” He hesitated, eyes still on Johnny’s mother. “Is she going to need some help?”

  Johnny defense mechanisms kicked in. “She’s okay.”

  “Well, l
et’s go.”

  Johnny shook his mother’s shoulder. Her head lolled and he shook harder. When she opened her eyes, he squeezed her arm. “We have to go,” he said. “We’re home.”

  “Home.” She repeated the word.

  “Yes. Home. Let’s go.” Johnny opened his door and the rain sound changed from metallic clang to muted roar. Sheets of water fell on wet earth and drooping leaves. Warm air flooded the car. “Don’t forget your bag,” he said.

  Johnny got her out of the car and turned for the shelter of the porch as the patrol car backed out of the mud and spun tires on the slick blacktop. He was on the porch when he realized that his mother was not with him. She stood in the rain, face turned to heaven, hands palm up. Her bag lay in the mud where she’d dropped it. Water fell black around her.

  Johnny splashed to her side, the rain stinging hard from its long fall down. “Mom?” He took her arm again. “Come on. Let’s go inside.” She kept her eyes closed but spoke, her voice too low to hear. “What?” Johnny asked.

  “I want to go away.”

  “Mom …”

  “I want to wash into the earth and be gone from this place.”

  Johnny picked up her bag, squeezed her arm hard. “Inside. Now.” He sounded like Ken, he realized; but she followed him.

  Inside, the lights burned sulfur bright. Uncle Steve sat at the kitchen table, a row of beer cans in front of him. Ken paced, bourbon in a glass between his heavy fingers. They looked up as Johnny led his mother in. “About time,” Ken said. “The nerve of that arrogant cop, telling me that I couldn’t come. Telling me that I could go home or wait here with him.” He gestured at Uncle Steve, and the disdain was plain in his voice. Steve’s head dipped between his shoulders. “I’m going to talk to somebody about that. He should know who I am.”