The Last Child

by John Hart

“That’s not an answer.”

  Hunt ignored him, his feet loud on the hard, textured steps going down. Yoakum spoke louder. “Damn it, Clyde, that’s not an answer.”

  —

  Huron Street turned sharp left off one of the main thoroughfares, then died on the wrong side of the tracks four miles from the city square. This part of town was near the front edge of the sand hills; you could tell from the temperature and from the vegetation. The sand held the heat, so the air was hotter. Trees grew smaller in the weak soil. The street ran narrow and short, with yards full of weed and dirt and dogs on strong chains. Hunt knew it well enough to take it seriously. Two years ago, he’d worked a murder scene on the third block in: a woman stabbed to death in her own bathtub. Turned out her son did it because she’d refused to loan him money. She died over fifty bucks.

  Hard people.

  A mean street.

  Hunt took the left and slowed two houses in. He killed the lights, drifted over a shattered bottle, and stopped. The road stretched out, a river of dark and poverty that died at silver rails leading to better places. Small, blue light leaked through curtains in a house to the left. Crickets scraped in the weeds.

  “This is a bad idea,” Yoakum said.

  Hunt moved his chin. “Last block down. On the right.”

  Yoakum’s head swiveled. His lips drew tight as he peered down the dark stretch. “Jesus.”

  Hunt studied the street, too. He saw dull yards with dirt tracks that ran from the front stoop to the road, a mattress on the curb, sofas on porches. Cars sat on blocks. Even the sky seemed heavier than it should.

  Two houses down, a pit bull paced side to side and eyed them from the end of its chain.

  “I hate this shit,” Yoakum said.

  “Let’s go in a bit farther.”

  “Why?”

  “I want to see if there’s a car at Freemantle’s house. Or lights.”

  Hunt kept his headlights off and eased the car into gear. They rolled another twenty feet and the pit bull stopped pacing. Yoakum pushed back into his seat. “Bad idea,” he said, and the dog lunged the full length of its chain, barking with such venom that it felt like it was in the car. Chains rattled up and down the street as other dogs joined in. Lights flicked on in two of the houses.

  “Bad idea,” Hunt agreed, and put the car in reverse. He whipped around the corner and shifted into drive.

  After a minute of silence, Yoakum said: “That might be a problem.”

  “The dogs?”

  “He’ll hear us coming four blocks away.”

  Hunt looked at his watch. “Maybe not.”

  “How so?”

  “Trust me.”

  Yoakum looked out the window. Hunt opened his cell and dialed Cross, who answered on the first ring. “I need that warrant,” Hunt said. “I need it in twenty minutes.”

  “It’s this judge.” Cross’s frustration showed. “He’s going over the affidavit for the third time.”

  “What? The document is crystal clear. There’s probable cause written all over it. Lean on him.”

  “I tried already.”

  “Which judge is it?” Hunt asked, and Cross told him. “Put him on the phone.”

  “He won’t.”

  “Just do it.”

  Hunt waited. Yoakum looked sideways. “You’re going to pressure the judge?”

  “I’m going to threaten him.”

  The judge came on the phone. “This is highly inappropriate, Detective.”

  “Is there some problem with the warrant application?” Hunt asked.

  “I have your affidavit and I will make my ruling once I’ve had the full opportunity—”

  Hunt cut him off. “Twelve-year-old child dies while judge dallies over warrant. That’s the headline if we’re too late. I have connections at the paper, people who owe me. I’ll make sure of it.”

  “You wouldn’t dare.”

  “Fucking try me.”

  —

  Thirty minutes later, the cops assembled in an empty lot behind one of the local banks. They had their warrant. It was ten minutes after three, dark and quiet. Overhead, a street light snapped and sizzled, then burned out with an audible crack. Five cops, six counting Hunt. He shrugged a vest over his head, slapped the Velcro in place and checked his weapon a second time. Yoakum met him at the back of the dark blue panel truck with the small gold shield on the back door. “You ready?”

  Yoakum looked concerned. “We should wait.”

  “No.”

  “Going in dark is a needless risk. Strange house, hostile street. He’ll hear the dogs when we’re still four blocks out.”

  “We move now.”

  Yoakum shook his head. “You’re going to get somebody hurt.”

  “Everybody here knows what they signed up for. This is not the Boy Scouts.”

  “And this is not some effete judge rubbing you the wrong way. This is the street. This is you putting good cops in harm’s way when a few more hours might make a world of difference. The Chief is looking for an excuse to fry your ass, and getting somebody hurt is the best gift you could give him. Be smart, Clyde. For once. Put this in perspective.”

  Hunt seized his friend by the arm. He squeezed hard and felt bone. “What if it was your daughter? Your sister? That’s the perspective, and you need to line up on it.” Hunt dropped the arm and tried to turn away, but Yoakum wasn’t finished.

  “You’re running on emotion.”

  Hunt studied his friend, eyes black in the night, face pale and clenched. “Don’t go against me on this, John. I’m finding this kid and I’m finding her alive.”

  “It’s on your head if somebody gets hurt.”

  “And on yours if she dies while we dick around in this parking lot. Now, are you done?”

  Yoakum’s features settled into determined planes. He cracked his knuckles and nodded. “I’m tired of talking anyway.”

  Hunt snapped his fingers and the other cops circled around: Yoakum, Cross, and three uniforms in full body armor. “This is who we want.” He held up a poor copy of an arrest photo pulled from one of the old files. “He has severe scarring on the right side of his face. The kid that identified him said it looked melted, like wax. He’s six and a half feet tall and weighs three hundred pounds. I don’t think we’ll find more than one guy with this description, so it should be easy.”

  A few nervous laughs. Hunt let them have it. “It’s the last block before the tracks, last house on the right. It sits back from the road with an empty lot behind it, tracks on one side, an occupied residence on the other. I want those three sides covered before we go in. The streetlamps are mostly busted, so it’ll be dark. The yards will be dead grass and flat dirt except for where the roots and trash make it not so flat. So watch your step. Once the van stops, Yoakum deploys first. He takes two of you with him.” Hunt pointed at two of the uniformed cops. “You’ll cover the back and sides in case he bolts. I’ll take the rest and go in the front. Cross is on the hammer, but I’m first man in. Now, this guy is huge, so no messing around. Get him down and get him down fast. The girl may be stashed elsewhere, so control your fire. We need him alive and we need him talking.”

  “What about the dogs?” Yoakum interrupted.

  Hunt looked at his watch. “Fuck the dogs.” He opened the back of the van; one of the uniformed officers got behind the wheel. Inside, it smelled of gun oil and sweat. The men sat shoulder to shoulder. “I hate this shit,” Yoakum said, and two of the uniforms smiled.

  Yoakum always said that.

  The engine caught and the truck turned a tight radius before sliding out onto the empty street. Through the back window, the tarmac was so shiny and black, it looked like volcanic glass. Hunt spoke to the driver. “Stop a block before the turn. There’s a convenience store. It’s closed.”

  Ninety seconds later, the truck eased into a deserted lot and jolted to a halt ten feet from a rusted Dumpster. Hunt looked at his watch. “Three minutes.”

  “Why wa
it?” Yoakum asked.

  Hunt ignored the question. “Three minutes.”

  Fingers tightened and relaxed. Men stared at their shoes. Cross fingered the heavy sledgehammer. “Right on the lock,” Hunt said. “Then get out of my way.”

  Cross nodded. Two minutes later, Yoakum nudged Hunt with an elbow. “Grunge, huh?”

  “Not now, Yoakum.” Another minute passed. The first hint of train came like a tide, so thin it was transparent.

  “You feel that?” Yoakum asked.

  Hunt looked around the dark space. “Here we go.” He tapped the driver on the shoulder. “When I say.”

  The driver nodded, and the night air began to swell. A rumble approached from the south, grew deeper, louder. The vibration climbed into an avalanche of sound, and when the whistle cried, one of the men twitched.

  “You’re a freaking genius,” Yoakum said.

  Hunt put a hand on the driver’s shoulder. “Now.”

  The truck ran out of the lot, went left and left again, hit Huron street dead center and tore down its length as dogs lunged and howled and choked on stiff collars. Then they were there. Hunt saw a car in the driveway, one window with a light burning. The van rocked to a halt. The doors split wide and spilled cop all over the street. Yoakum and his men ran for the sides, weapons ready, black boots so lost against the dark earth that they almost seemed to float.

  Thirty feet away, the train tore through the night, a thunderclap that shook the earth. Hunt gave the driver one second to catch up, then felt air tear his throat as he ran. Cross came up on his other side, and they took the yard in long strides, ate up the dirt and dead grass until the porch sagged under their weight. Hunt pointed at the space between the door handle and frame, then stepped back, flashlight in one hand, service weapon in the other. He nodded once and didn’t even hear the sledgehammer strike. It burst the door with a spray of desiccated wood and a flash of bright, tortured metal. The caboose flashed past, brought the suck of vacuum and a fading clatter; then Hunt was through.

  Inside, a lamp burned above a chair with torn cushions; something fluorescent at the back spread white light near the end of the hall. Hunt checked right, then tracked the gun left. Gaps in the wall showed black rooms and humps of furniture. Something hissed to the left, static from a speaker, the thump of a needle at the end of a long, vinyl groove. Hunt stepped aside and Cross pushed in after him, then the driver. The room was hot and close. Shadows danced on tobacco-colored walls but nothing else moved.

  Hunt smelled it first, an oily burn that filled his sinuses. Cross caught his eye as the driver convulsed twice and buried his nose in the crook of his arm. “Steady,” Hunt whispered, then pointed at the dark room to the left and sent the other cops that way. Hunt swung his light into the narrow hall, checked his stride at the door, then stepped into the rank gloom. The space was narrow and felt longer than it should be. Ahead, a sharp edge of white light cut a triangle on the carpet. Hunt called out: “Police. We have a warrant.”

  Silent. Still. Hunt moved down the hall and came to a kitchen on his right. A long tube of white flickered over a sink filled with dishes. He checked the room, found an empty liquor bottle, and an open window with a torn screen. He turned his back, moved deeper into the gloom, and saw the smear of blood on Sheetrock. He stepped past an open door, swung his light into the room, and flies exploded from the bodies.

  —

  The woman was white, possibly in her thirties, possibly Ronda Jeffries. It was hard to tell because most of her face was gone. She wore filmy lingerie, crusted with blood. One breast hung out, the skin more gray than white. Her face was crushed, jaw broken in two or more places, left eye distended from a shattered orbit. Her torso stretched toward the hall, her legs near the bed. One arm angled above her head, and on that hand two fingers were clearly broken.

  The black male was not so horribly disfigured. In life he must have been large; but not now. Now he was reduced. Trapped gas distended his stomach, making his arms and legs look unusually small. His head was staved in on the right side, giving his face a slack, unfinished appearance. He was nude, slumped in an overstuffed chair as if he’d simply decided to sit.

  Hunt reached for the wall switch and flicked on the overhead light. It made everything look worse, the violence more complete. Hunt felt the other cops arrive behind him. “Nobody in,” Hunt said.

  He knelt by the woman, careful of how he placed his feet. He studied the corpse from the bottom to the top. She had a pedicure, with acrylic beads set into the bright red polish. Calluses on the bottoms of her feet. Legs shaved to the knee. False nails, close to an inch long, made a spike of each finger. No visible scars or tattoos. Thirty-two seemed to be about the right age.

  He did the same with the dead man, squatted by the chair and looked him over. Black. Forties. Strong. Maybe six foot two. He had old surgical scars on both knees. No jewelry. Gold fillings. He needed a shave.

  Hunt stood. A glance showed work boots by the closet door, jeans, satin briefs the color of candied apples. He found the cinder block beside the bed. “Yoakum.” Hunt gestured and Yoakum crossed the room. Hunt pointed at the cinder block. One side of it was greased with coagulated blood. “I’m thinking that’s the murder weapon.”

  “Looks like it.”

  Hunt straightened. “Hang on.” He stepped around the dead man’s feet and over the female victim’s arm. The other cops pressed against the open door but Hunt ignored them. He knelt by the door, ran his fingers across the carpet where parallel indentations stretched the length of a cinder block. When he stood, he found Cross at the door.

  “What can I do?” Cross asked.

  “Tape off the yard and the street. Get Crime Scene and the medical examiner out here.” Hunt rubbed his face. “And find me a Diet Coke.” He caught Cross by the sleeve as he turned. “Not from the refrigerator in this house. And clear this hall.”

  Hunt watched the hall empty, sensed Yoakum behind him and turned. Framed against the death and violence, his friend looked flushed and very alive. Hunt looked past him, and when he spoke, he kept his voice low. “It’s early, I know, but I don’t think this was premeditated.”

  “Because?”

  Hunt flicked a finger toward the base of the door. “Dents in the carpet. It looks like they were using the cinder block for a doorstop.” He shrugged. “Killers with a plan usually bring a weapon.”

  “Maybe. Maybe he knew the cinder block would be there.”

  “Too early,” Hunt agreed. “You’re right.”

  “So what’s the plan?”

  Hunt indicated the room with an open palm. “Seal this off until Crime Scene gets here. Canvass the street. Get a cadaver dog out here, just in case.” Hunt stopped speaking, turned into the hall. “Damn!” It came from the gut, an explosion. He slammed a fist into the wall, then stomped into the living room. When Yoakum stepped into the room, Hunt had both palms pressed against the frame of the front door. His forehead made a dull, thumping sound as he tapped it against the wood. “Damn it.” He hit his head harder.

  “If you want to bleed,” Yoakum said. “There are better ways.”

  Hunt turned, put his back against the splintered door. He knew that his face was naked. “This is not right.”

  “Murder never is.”

  “She was supposed to be here, John.” Hunt felt a sudden need for fresh air. He tore open the door, tossed words over his shoulder with something like hate. “It was supposed to end today.”

  “Tiffany?”

  “All of it. Everything.”

  Yoakum didn’t get it, but then he did.

  The hell that Hunt was living through.

  His life as he knew it.

  CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

  The old station wagon coasted to a halt on a bent strip of narrow black. The road was empty, a dark, lonely stretch beyond the edge of town, bracketed by forest and quiet. Johnny eyed the house, where dim light pushed out from one of the windows. Two weeks had passed since the last time he wa
s here, but the same vehicles rusted under the same trees, the same beer can balanced on the mailbox.

  The house itself was a bare hint: a yellow gleam and a collection of hard edges that didn’t seem to line up properly. A rotten-sweet poison seeped in from the dump a mile away. In daylight, the crows flocked and a distant gun barked as the junkman shot rats and cans. At night, the crickets called; but sometimes, for no reason, they fell silent. It was as if the world suddenly closed its mouth. Johnny always froze in that silence, and the air around him felt breathless and cold. Johnny dreamed of that sensation more than he cared to admit, but still he came.

  Midnight. Dawn.

  Six times.

  A dozen.

  Burton Jarvis was on the list because he was a recidivist. That was the biggest word Johnny knew: it meant, sick motherfucker likely to do it again. He was a registered sex offender who made his money stuffing gut-shot deer and hauling refuse on a flatbed trailer. His nickname was Jar, as in: “Look at the size of this freaking buck, Jar. Think you can stuff one that big?”

  Jar didn’t have what Johnny would consider friends, but a few men came by more than once. They passed computer discs between filthy palms and made small talk about how Thailand was still the best place to get laid. Johnny had found those men, too. Where they lived. Where they worked.

  They were on his list.

  One guy came more than the others. Sometimes he had a gun, and sometimes not. Tall and wiry and old, he had eager, shiny eyes and long fingers. He and Jar drank liquor from the same bottle and talked about stuff they’d done outside some village in Vietnam. They got all smoke-eyed when they talked about a girl they called Small Yellow. They’d spent three days with her in a strafed-out hut full of her dead family. Small Yellow, they’d say, bottle going up, one head shaking. Fucking shame.

  Their laughter was not nice at all.

  It took Johnny two trips to become suspicious about the shed behind Jar’s house. It sat at the end of a narrow footpath through dense trees, hidden from the road and from the house. The walls were cinder block, the windows nailed shut and packed tight with pink insulation and black plastic. Johnny could not see in. Light never came out. The lock was half the size of Johnny’s head.