The Last Child

by John Hart

  That’s where he went first.

  The shed.

  CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

  By six o’clock the bodies were bagged. Hunt stood on the porch as the stretchers clattered through the door, the black vinyl looking awkward and slick. He eyed the street and the yard, both colorless under a dull, dark sky. The sun had yet to rise, but he felt it coming. Gray light gathered on treetops beyond the tracks and the eastern sky showed the barest hint of something new. Cop cars were all over the place, blocking off the street, angled at the curb. The medical examiner’s van sat at the edge of the yard, back end yawning wide. A dusting of reporters stood behind yellow tape, but it was the neighbors that Hunt studied the hardest. The street left a narrow footprint. Small lots pushed the houses together. Somebody knew something. They had to. His eyes cut back and forth, lingered on an old white man in a yellowed shirt, a black kid with shifty eyes, gang colors, and homemade tats. He studied a wide-faced woman with pendulous breasts and a child in each arm. She lived next door but claimed to know nothing.

  Didn’t hear nothing.

  Eyes full of hate.

  Didn’t see nothing.

  One of the department’s canine handlers appeared around the side of the house, his clothing smeared with filth, his face drawn. The dog, a black-coated mongrel, pressed against his thigh. Its tongue lolled out of its mouth as it gazed, unblinking, at the body bags. His handler shook his head. “Nothing in the crawl space or on the grounds. If there’s another body, it’s elsewhere.”

  “You’re positive of that?” Hunt asked.

  “Absolutely.” He thumped the dog’s head with an open palm.

  Hunt felt something like relief, but was loath to put too much faith in the feeling. Just because Tiffany Shore was not here did not mean that she was still alive. He remained viscerally aware of the bodies behind him. “No chance that these threw the dog off?” He gestured at the bags.

  “No chance at all.”

  Hunt nodded. “Okay, Mike. Thanks for checking.”

  The handler made a clicking sound with his mouth and the dog followed him out.

  Nothing. They had nothing. Hunt thought about what Johnny Merrimon had said about the girl they’d found in Colorado: walled up in a hole dug into the side of the cellar, caged for a year with a mattress, a bucket, and a candle. Disgust was an organ in Hunt’s gut. The more he thought about it, the more that organ churned. He tried to imagine if he’d been the cop to find that girl. What would he have done first: Would he have lifted her from that stained mattress or put six rounds in the bastard’s face? He wondered if he could do it, forget seventeen years of cop and just pull the trigger.

  Maybe.

  More than maybe.

  Hunt watched Trenton Moore secure the bodies in the back of his van. The medical examiner looked like Hunt felt: tired and gray, stretched as thin as the morning light. When he stepped back onto the porch, Hunt smelled coffee and formaldehyde, a morgue smell. “Sorry to give you two more so quickly,” Hunt told him.

  Moore waved it off. “I was going to call you anyway,” he said. “I have a preliminary workup on David Wilson.”

  “That was quick.”

  “What can I say? I love my job.”

  Hunt stepped to the far side of the porch, away from the door and the foot traffic. Moore followed him. “Talk to me.”

  “He was alive when he came over the rail. The boy told us that, and my findings are consistent. Most of the obvious injuries, you saw. Broken leg and arm; multiple fractures, actually. Full details will be in the final report. Extensive abrasions from contact with the concrete and the ground. Fractured orbit on the left side. He had seven crushed ribs, also on the left side, massive trauma to his internal organs, internal bleeding, a punctured lung; but none of these things killed him.”

  “Explain.”

  “I found a single large contusion on his throat.” Moore indicated the front of his own throat, just above the collarbone. “The larynx was crushed, the esophagus. Massive weight was applied until the entire airway was damaged to the point of total obstruction.” A pause. “He suffocated, Detective.”

  “But he was alive when Johnny left him. Breathing, able to speak.”

  “The contusion on his throat has a pattern. It’s extremely vague, only visible under magnification and not enough to take an impression or get any kind of match, but it’s definitely there.”

  “A pattern?”

  Moore’s expression was pained. “A tread pattern.”

  Hunt felt sweat cool on his neck.

  “Somebody stepped on his throat, Detective. Somebody stood on his throat until he was dead.”

  —

  Moore’s report changed the tone of the Hunt’s morning. It implied a viciousness that seemed colder, somehow, more cruel and personal.

  Hunt walked into the house, unsettled and angry. The bodies were gone, but the black dawn felt darker still. At twenty-five minutes after six, Hunt’s phone rang. It was his son. Hunt recognized the number and flinched. With all that was going on, he’d not thought of the boy. Not even once. “Hello, Allen.”

  “You didn’t come home.”

  Hunt moved back onto the porch. He looked at the flat, gray sky, pictured his son’s face. “I know,” he said. “I’m sorry.”

  “You coming home for breakfast?”

  Hunt’s guilt intensified. The kid was trying to make things right between them. “I can’t.”

  Silence then. “Of course not.”

  Hunt’s fingers tightened on the phone. He felt his son slipping away, but had no idea what to do about it. “Son. About last night …”

  “Yeah.”

  “I would not have hit you.” Hunt heard breath on the line, then the kid disconnected. Damn. Hunt pocketed the phone and put his eyes back on the idlers. They watched the van with dark fascination; all of them except one. The old man in the stained shirt stood on the tracks, one hand clutching the waist of his ragged pants. His eyes drooped enough to show red skin at the bottom lids, and his other hand shook with a palsy as he sucked on a damp cigarette. He stared at Hunt, then gestured with a curl of his fingers.

  “Yoakum,” Hunt said, and Yoakum stuck his head through the door. “I’ll be back.” Hunt indicated the man on the tracks, and Yoakum studied the decrepit figure.

  “You need backup?”

  “Fuck off, Yoakum.”

  The bank crumbled under Hunt’s feet as he climbed to the tracks. Smoke curled around the wine-dark root of the old man’s nose, and, up close, Hunt saw that the palsy infected much of his body. He stood seven inches over five feet, bent at the shoulders and tilted right, as if that leg was too short. White hair rose in the breeze. He held out a hand, and his voice made Hunt think of soda crackers. “Can I have a dollar?”

  Hunt studied the hand, saw the faded tattoo on the back of it. “How about five?” The old man tracked the bill out of the wallet, took it, and slipped it into one of his pockets. He licked chalky lips and flicked his eyes down the bank on the opposite side of the tracks. Following the gaze, Hunt spotted a tattered green tarp slung in the low brush beyond the kudzu. It faded into the trees, almost invisible. He saw a pile of empty cans, a ring of blackened earth. The man was homeless.

  A raw and sudden fear flared in the man’s eyes. Tension put new creases in the hollowed-out cheeks. “It’s okay,” Hunt told him. “No problems.” He took out another bill and the old man’s head bobbed as he cackled, a rasp of noise that ended in a hacking cough. Something brown hit one of the gleaming rails. Hunt had to look away, and when he did he saw the bottles scattered down the bank. Cheap wines, forty-ounce beers, a few pint bottles of inexpensive bourbon. “Did you see what happened here?” Hunt asked, pointing at the house.

  The man looked vacant, then lost and afraid. He turned away and Hunt caught him by the reed of his arm. He kept his voice soft. “Sir. You motioned to me. Remember?”

  The old man shifted in place, fingers curled and yellow at the tips. “Sh…? sh
…? she liked to walk around naked.” He gestured to the bathroom window. “She was laughing at me.” One eye twitched. “F… fucking bitch.”

  Hunt spoke with care. “Are you referring to Ronda Jeffries?”

  The man’s chin made a violent twitch, but he didn’t seem to understand the question.

  “Are you alright?” Hunt asked.

  Both arms rose. “Ain’t I king of the world?” He made as if to walk off, and Hunt put two fingers on the hard bone of his shoulder.

  “Sir, can you tell me what happened here?”

  The man’s left eye closed. “I just saw the shovel,” he said, and stood on one foot to scratch his calf with the front edge of his shoe. “He got that shovel.” He pointed. “Got it right out of that shed.”

  “Do you mean Levi Freemantle? Black male. Three hundred pounds.” Hunt looked at the shed. When he looked back, the man’s face had gone slack again. “Sir, you were saying?”

  “What do you want?” He waved a hand as if chasing flies from his face. “I don’t know you.” He turned and shambled off down the tracks, looked back once, then swatted at more imaginary flies.

  Hunt sighed. “Cross,” he called, and waved him up the slope.

  “Yes, sir?” Cross appeared on the tracks.

  “Go get him,” Hunt said. “He may have seen something. Maybe not. See what you can get, but go easy. When you finish, call Social Services and the veteran’s hospital. Get them out here to help this guy.”

  “Veteran’s hospital?”

  Hunt gestured at the back of his right hand. “He has a tattoo. USN. The guy’s a sailor. Show him some respect.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  When Hunt made it back to the front porch, Yoakum stuck his head out again. “I think you ought to see this,” he said.

  “What?”

  “You remember the empty room on the southwest corner?”

  “The bedroom?” Hunt asked, picturing it in his head. It was a small bedroom, stripped bare. A yellow shade in the window. Tape marks on the wall. It was remarkable only in its emptiness. “What about it?”

  Yoakum’s voice dropped. “You just need to see it.”

  Hunt followed Yoakum through the house. He pushed past technicians collecting prints, a photographer in a police jacket. Two uniformed cops made room for him as he approached the room. “It’s in the closet.” Yoakum opened the closet door and flicked the switch. Light spilled out, filling the closet, making its white walls seem brighter than they were. The picture, drawn with crayons on the back wall, was seven feet tall, childish and distorted. The man was outlined in black, had red lips, wide purple pants, and tremendous, stick-finger hands. The brown eyes were perfectly round, as if traced around the bottom of a mason jar. A series of lines rippled across the right side of his face, but looked sinuous and nonthreatening. He clutched a little girl to his chest and waved one hand, as if at a friend in the distance. The girl had oval eyes and a ribbon in her hair, a speck of pink almost lost against his wide chest. She had one hand up and wore a yellow skirt. Her smile was a violent gash of red.

  “What the hell?”

  “Exactly,” Yoakum replied. “That is exactly what I said.”

  Hunt scanned the rest of the room. “No other drawings?”

  “None.”

  “Somebody has to know something.”

  “We’ve canvassed the neighborhood, but they won’t talk to cops. Not on this street.”

  “Is there any sign that a girl was held in this house?”

  “The room’s been cleaned,” Yoakum offered. “That’s odd in itself. The rest of the place is disgusting.”

  Hunt played his eyes over the bare walls, noted the spots where tape had been ripped off. The marks were angled, as if to hold sheets of paper by the corners. Hunt started in one corner and moved slowly along each wall. He studied the stained Sheetrock, the floor. He found crayon marks on the walls. There was not another picture, no kind of design. He found random squiggles and short, hard lines, like someone had drawn off the paper’s edge. He looked behind the yellow shade, then stooped for something in the far corner. He picked it up by the edges, and Yoakum came over to examine it. “Is that a button?” he asked.

  Hunt tilted it, squinted. “It came off a stuffed animal.”

  “What?”

  Hunt looked closer. “I think it’s an eye.” He held out a hand. “Give me a bag.” Yoakum passed over a plastic bag. Hunt placed the plastic eye in the bag and sealed it. “I want this room dusted.” Hunt stood.

  “Where are you going?” Yoakum asked.

  “I’m tired of this shit.”

  Hunt stormed out of the house and onto the porch. People still stood in tight knots, captivated by the sight of cops who presented no actual threat. Looking at them, at their complacence and their disregard, Hunt felt his anger boil into rage. Pitching his voice to carry, Hunt said, “I want to talk to someone who knows what has been going on in this house.” People froze. Blankness dropped into every single face. He’d seen it a million times. “People are dead. A girl is missing. Can anyone tell me what has been going on in this house?”

  Hunt’s eyes found those of the angry woman with a child on each hip. He focused on her because she was a mother, and because she lived right next door. “Anything might help.” The woman stared, face cold and distant. Hunt panned the crowd, saw the anger and distrust. “A girl is missing!”

  But he was a cop on the wrong street. He saw a paint can at the corner of the porch, label gone white, lid rusted shut. With a violence that surprised him, Hunt kicked the can. It arced into the yard, struck dirt, and exploded in a belch of gray. Hunt stared at the splatter, and when he looked up, he saw the Chief standing at the curb. He was fresh at the scene; his car still idled. He stood at the open door, arms crossed, frowning, his gaze intent on Hunt. Their eyes locked for a long second, then the Chief shook his head. Slowly. Resignedly.

  Hunt counted two heartbeats, then turned for the open door.

  The smell of death rolled over him.

  CHAPTER NINETEEN

  Burton Jarvis left the shed at twenty minutes past six. He’d been up all night, strung out on tequila and speed, and now a fuse burned behind his eyes, something hot and bright. Something like fear. He was angry and unsatisfied, full of sharp regret that had nothing to do with right and wrong. His mind spun on ideas of consequence and risk, the knowledge of things he probably shouldn’t have done. Things that could get him caught.

  But still …

  He swayed in the damp gray space beneath the trees, felt the slash of grin spread on his face.

  But still …

  The smile wilted as he manipulated the big lock, died when the sweat sprang out on his skin. He staggered down the path from the shed to the house. His eyeballs itched, and it felt like somebody had poured wax into his sinuses.

  Jar was not a nice man. He knew this about himself, but did not care. In fact, he took a perverse pride in watching young mothers drag their children into traffic just to avoid passing him on the sidewalk. After nine arrests and thirteen years behind bars, caring for his own needs had become his religion. He was sixty-eight, with bristled hair, two loose teeth, and eyes like raw oysters. Three packs a day kept him lean; the drugs and booze kept him out of prison. They dulled the edge, took the sting out of the places his mind liked to travel. With enough dope, he could get through the day.

  Usually.

  Jar kept a ramshackle house on twelve acres at the edge of town. The two-lane slithered past on its way to the landfill. In the front yard he had trees and dirt, a nineteen-year-old Pontiac, and a truck that spewed black smoke. In back, he had barrels of empty bottles and a ditch filled with trash.

  And he had the shed. It sat on the back of the property, in a patch of woods so deep and dense he could have grown it just to serve this one purpose: to hide his shed. It was not on any tax map or plat. There was no permit. There was the shed, two miles of woods, and then there was the river.

  J
ar had seen the kid before, of course: a flash in the window, a blip of color in the deep brush. He had no idea what the little shit wanted, but had almost caught him once. He’d seen the boy at a rear window, then slipped out the front door and come up quiet and slick. He got a handful of hair but the kid tore free before he could snag a meaty part. Jar had chased him for a quarter mile before his lungs revolted. He remembered the moment, though: on his knees in the dirt, yelling with what breath he could find: Come back here again and I’ll kill you. I will fucking kill you.

  But the kid had come back, twice that Jar knew about. He never expected to see him like this. Not in broad daylight.

  The car was what caught his eye first. It was parked along the side of the road, its leftmost tires all but in the ditch. Jar saw a slice of dull chrome through the trees and stepped out onto his porch. He was in underwear, stretched around the legs and old, but he didn’t care. This was a barren street, the nearest neighbor more than a quarter mile away. Cars came by on the way to the dump, kids dragged loud cars, but that was about it. This was his patch of heaven, and he did whatever the hell he wanted to do. Besides, it was early. The sun hadn’t even cleared the trees.

  What the hell was a car doing parked in front of his house?

  Most people knew better.

  He reached inside and caught the bat where it leaned against the doorjamb. It had dents and scars from a time he beat the television to death over a fumble in a playoff game. Jar staggered when he hit the bottom step, his lower back full of dull pain and the odd sharp needle. Trees leaned into him as he walked. A branch took a swipe and peeled some skin off his cheek.

  Fucking tree.

  He hit it with the bat, almost fell down.

  The car was an old wagon: yellow paint, wood-grain panels. It had bald tires and weather stripping sprung from two of the windows. It looked empty. Jar stopped at the end of his dirt drive and put bleary eyes up the road and down. Nobody coming. Nothing on the road but the wagon. The blacktop was warm and smooth, the bat busted up and full of splinters. It scraped against his leg and drove slivers of wood under the skin. He stopped and saw pinpricks of blood that looked as bright as candy on the white, hairless meat of his calf.