The Last Child

by John Hart

  “Go out?”

  “Sure.”

  “What about DSS?”

  “If they come, I won’t answer the door. We can say we were out for dinner.”

  Steve looked at the phone, the door. Johnny made it easy for him. “I’ve been alone plenty of times. You don’t have to worry.”

  Relief softened Steve’s hard-edged mouth. “I’d just be gone for a few hours.”

  “I’m thirteen.”

  Steve rose and pointed. The nail on his finger was brown and broken. “Stay out of my stuff,” he said.

  “Of course.”

  “And don’t let anybody inside.”

  Johnny nodded solemnly and saw that Steve still needed help. “I’ll probably just read. Homework, you know.”

  “Homework. Good idea.”

  Steve left and Johnny watched him all the way to the curb. Then he went through Steve’s stuff. Methodically. Carefully. He felt no guilt, no remorse. If Steve was going to get stoned or drunk, Johnny wanted to know. Same thing with guns and knives and baseball bats.

  Johnny wanted to know where they were.

  If the gun was loaded.

  He found vodka in the freezer, a bag of pot in a casserole dish. The computer was password protected, the filing cabinet locked. He discovered a hunting knife on the floor of the bedroom closet and a sex manual on the shelf. An interior door led from the kitchen to the garage, where he found a pickup truck with worn tires and gouges in the dirty white paint. Johnny stood under the bright light and ran his hands along the hood, the mud-caked fenders. The truck was old, a beater, but it had air in the tires and the needle lifted off the peg when Johnny turned the key to check the gas. He stood in the garage smell and thought hard about things he should probably not do; but two minutes later he sat at the kitchen table, truck key in front of him, phone book open.

  There was one listing for Levi Freemantle.

  Johnny knew the street.

  He picked up the key but jumped when the phone rang. It was his mother, and she was distraught. “Are you being a good boy?”

  Johnny picked up the key, tilted it in the light. “Yes.”

  “This is only temporary, honey. You need to believe that.”

  Johnny heard a noise through the phone, a crash. “I believe it.”

  “I love you, baby.”

  “I love you, too.” Another sound.

  “I have to go,” she said.

  “Are you okay?”

  “Be a good boy.” She hung up.

  Johnny stared at the phone, then put it down. The key was warm in his hand.

  No one had to know.

  CHAPTER THIRTY

  Katherine put the phone on the floor, next to her leg. Against her back, the front door was hard and cold. She pushed against it, even as a fist slammed into it from the outside. “Go away, Ken!”

  Above her, the deadbolt held fast. Another blow, this one low. A kick. “You are my girlfriend. This is my house.”

  “I changed the locks!”

  “Open this damn door!”

  “I’ll call the cops. I swear I will.”

  The door shuddered from successive blows; the knob twisted but held. “I just want to talk!”

  “I’m dialing.” A lie.

  Silence, sudden and complete. She held her breath and listened. She imagined his own ear to the door, his fingertips pressed white on the dirty paint. The silence built. Ten seconds. A minute. She screamed when he kicked the door a final time. Then she felt vibration as he descended the steps. His car started and headlights stabbed through the tattered lace curtains as he turned in the yard and sped up the road.

  She collapsed against the door, shaking so violently her jaw hurt. He had to be drunk or coked up. But she’d made a decision. Johnny first. No drinking, no pills. And that meant no Ken Holloway.

  Katherine bit down on the heel of her hand. At least Johnny was not here. At least he was safe.

  She waited until her heart slowed and her breathing settled. Five minutes. Maybe ten. She was about to stand when she heard stealthy movement in the yard: gravel under foot, a rasp of bare earth. Fear paralyzed her so badly that she literally could not breathe. Outside, an old plank bent with the sound of wind through a dead tree. Weight on the porch. A thump against the door, very quiet. Katherine heard the bottom step groan and then silence.

  Total, terrifying silence.

  She had the phone in her hand but decided that 911 was not good enough. She wanted Hunt, trusted him. Keeping low, she moved to the kitchen. His card was in the top drawer. He answered on the first ring. She spoke in a whisper.

  “Do not open the door,” he said. “Whatever you do. I’ll have a car there before you know it.”

  She kept the phone in her hand even after they’d disconnected. She crept to the window and risked a glance. She saw shadows and trees, the friction of light and dark as low clouds raced across a rising moon. Nothing on the road. Nothing in the yard. She leaned right, pushed her cheek into the glass. She saw part of the porch but not enough. At the door again, she listened and heard a scratching sound, like a fork on wax paper. She heard it twice, faintly, then the unmistakable sound of a muffled cry. Faint. Somehow familiar.

  She heard it again. It was outside the door. On the porch.

  Katherine looked at the phone, then heard the cry again. For one wild second, she thought it was a baby. Someone had left a baby on her porch; but that was insane, she knew it; but the sound came again, and she found her fingers on the deadbolt, one hand on the knob.

  She froze, thinking of Ken.

  In the distance, an engine turned over. The sound rose then drifted south. The cry came again and she felt air on her cheek as the door opened to the length of the security chain. She did not remember making the decision to open it.

  On the porch was a cardboard box sealed with silver tape. An envelope sat on top of it. The box shifted and the sound from within came more clearly. Johnny’s name was written on the envelope. “Oh my God.” She studied the yard, found it empty, and stepped out. The envelope was unsealed, a single piece of paper inside. The message was typed and unsigned.

  You saw nobody. Heard nothing. You keep your damn mouth shut.

  Katherine stared in dread at the box. She knelt and peeled back the line of bright tape. It came off with a tearing sound. Inside was a cat. Alive.

  Its back was broken.

  Katherine fell backward into the house, frozen, and one thought filled her head.

  Johnny.

  She punched in the number for Steve’s apartment but misdialed. She tried again, fingers clumsy. “Please, God,” she said.

  The phone rang six times, ten; but no one answered. In mortal fear, she hung up the phone. Then she called Hunt again.

  CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE

  Johnny opened the garage door and started the truck. It ran rough and spilled blue smoke, but it was drivable. He stuck to side streets until he hit the four-lane, then he stepped on the gas and the truck jolted beneath him. He slowed as he approached Main Street, then cut right down a one-way to avoid traffic.

  He drove slowly. Neighborhoods decayed the closer he got to the tracks. Johnny heard music and raised voices, the crump of a misaligned door slamming shut. He found Huron Street and turned left. Parked cars cluttered the narrow street and glass winked in the gutter. Weeds grew tall from cracks in the curb and a dog exploded at him from the darkness. It was a patch of brown on black, a jagged outline that jerked to a halt at the end of its chain. Johnny drove on, but there were other dogs in other yards. He imagined fingers on thin curtains, people stained television blue as they bent to peer through filthy windows. And it was not just imagination. To the left, a man stepped through his front door and onto the porch. He had pale feet, wore jeans with no shirt, and sucked on the cigarette that hung between his lips. Johnny ignored him and drove on.

  Freemantle’s house solidified ahead and to the right. It was a lightless hulk pinned on a dark lot. Behind it, pale gravel
spilled down the bank that led to the tracks. Johnny smelled creosote, rock dust, and oil. He pulled to the curb and killed the engine. Behind him, in a house the color of mustard, a baby cried.

  Johnny stepped onto the street and the baby fell quiet. The dogs settled down. Stepping into Freemantle’s yard, Johnny saw yellow tape strung between the posts that held up the porch roof. Ducking beneath the tape, he cupped his hands around his face and tried to see inside. Nothing. More dark. Johnny pulled down more yellow tape. The door swung open at his touch. Johnny stepped inside, but there was no one. The house was empty. He flipped on lights and saw blood on the wall.

  That scared him.

  That was real.

  The blood was streaked and black. Gray powder stained light switches and doorknobs. In the back room, the blood was worse. So was the smell. Oily and thick, it stuck in his throat. Dried blood was a desert on the floor. Tape marked where the bodies had fallen.

  Two bodies.

  A desert of blood.

  Johnny turned and ran for the front door. The hall constricted and his shadow twisted as he ran. The door stood open, a hard, black empty with yellow tape that slapped at his arms. He leapt off the porch, landed badly, and tore skin from his palms. He stumbled once more, then cranked up the truck and got the hell out. The dogs rose to send him on his way.

  —

  Hunt bulled his way through town. He crested the last hill doing eighty and felt the car rise on its shocks; then he was in the trough, foot pressing down as the needle swung to ninety. He braked hard at Katherine’s drive, hung a right, and slid to a halt.

  Lights burned in the house. Darkness gathered in the trees.

  No squad car.

  Hunt spilled out, lights thumping blue behind the grille of his car. He scanned the tree line and the yard, one hand on his holstered weapon. It was quiet and still; the porch felt hollow beneath his feet. He hammered on the door, sensed movement inside and stepped back, checking the yard behind him once again. The lock disengaged and the door opened a crack, then swung wide. Katherine Merrimon stood in the light, tear-stained and small, an eight-inch butcher’s knife gripped between fingers squeezed to bone.

  “Katherine—”

  “Any word on Johnny?”

  Hunt stepped through the door. “I’ve already sent a car to Steve’s apartment. It’s probably there already.” Hunt held out a hand. “May I have the knife?”

  “Sorry.” She handed it over and Hunt placed it on the counter.

  “You’re okay,” he said. “I’m sure that Johnny is, too.”

  “He’s not okay.”

  “We don’t know anything yet.”

  “I want to go to Steve’s.”

  “And we will. I promise. Just sit down for a minute.” He got her onto the sofa and then straightened. The box was on the table. “Is that it?” Hunt asked.

  She nodded. “I think it’s dead, now.”

  Hunt approached the box, saw the silver tape, torn free, and beside the box an envelope and a sheet of paper. “I couldn’t leave it outside,” Katherine said. Hunt used a pen to lift the flaps. A film glazed the cat’s eyes. Its tongue protruded.

  “It’s dead.” Hunt closed the flaps, then read the note: You saw nobody. Heard nothing. You keep your damn mouth shut.

  Katherine crossed the room and stood beside him, looking down. She was shaking. “Do you think Ken did it? It came ten minutes after he left.”

  “I doubt it.”

  “You sound certain.”

  “I’m not, but it feels wrong. Why drive off and come back? Why announce himself like that? And why do it in the first place?”

  “What does it mean?” Katherine asked.

  Hunt read the lines again. “I think it has to do with Burton Jarvis.”

  “What?”

  “The news coverage has been extensive.” He held her eyes. “You saw Johnny’s notes?”

  “Of course.”

  “He was there, Katherine, at Jarvis’s house. No matter what he wants me to believe, Johnny was there a lot.”

  “Somebody thinks that Johnny saw him?”

  “Johnny identified five of the six men who visited on a regular basis. Just five.”

  “And number six?”

  “Number six was careful. He changed license plates three times that we know of. He’s worried that Johnny can identify him.”

  “Are you talking about the cop?”

  “We don’t know that it was a cop.”

  “Johnny thinks it was.”

  “He’s wrong. He has to be.”

  “But what if he’s not?”

  Hunt lacked an answer. In its place, he offered a hand. “Let’s go find your son.”

  —

  It was late when Johnny turned into Steve’s development. He weaved between the buildings, made the final left, and stopped a hundred yards short. Steve’s van was back. Cops cars were parked in the street in front of his apartment. Hunt’s car was there, too. That meant Social Services.

  Johnny cursed himself. He should have come back more quickly. He should not have gone at all. They’d take him away for good, now. Sure as apple pie. Sure as anything.

  He killed the engine and opened the door. A stand of pines rose to the right of the road, halfway to the building. Johnny kept his shoulder on warm metal, maneuvered between parked cars until the trees were close, then he sprinted for cover. He dove into a bed of needles, pulled himself up, and scrambled for the darkest pocket he could find.

  Jack was already there.

  “Damn it, Johnny! You scared me.”

  Johnny smelled the bourbon on his friend, saw the bottle clutched to his chest. “What are you doing here, Jack?”

  Jack shifted, sat up against the trunk of a pine tree. “Where else would I be?”

  “Do you know what’s going on?”

  Jack pointed at the police cars. “When I got here, that’s what I found.”

  “How’d you get here?”

  “I walked.”

  “It’s four miles.”

  Jack shrugged.

  “Are you drunk?” Johnny asked.

  “Are you preaching?”

  “No.”

  “You sound a little preachy.”

  Johnny ignored the dig. “Is my mother in there?”

  “I think I saw her once. Truth is, I don’t really know. I’ve just been waiting for you.” Johnny maneuvered closer to the edge of trees. Jack hissed at him. “Don’t do that, Johnny. For all I know, my old man’s in there, too. I can’t handle that.”

  “Your father?”

  “He’s trying to make an impression. Working overtime and all. He wants to make detective first grade by the time Gerald goes pro.” He took a pull on the bottle. “Like it matters.”

  Johnny slid back into the gloom. Jack was slurring his words, slipping off the tree trunk. He could barely sit up straight. “What’s wrong with you?” Johnny asked.

  “Nothing.” Sullen. Johnny turned his attention back to the apartment. “If you must know …” Jack spoke too loudly.

  “Shut up, J-man! Jesus.”

  Jack lowered his voice. “If you must know, I had a fight with my dad. Somebody called him about what happened at the mall.”

  “Let me guess. He took Gerald’s side.”

  Jack shook his head. “I expected that anyway. This was about you. He said we couldn’t be friends anymore, said it was my official warning. The last warning.” Jack waved a hand and staggered to his feet. “But don’t worry. I told him to fuck off.”

  “You did not.”

  The bottle went up. “As good as.”

  Johnny studied the window. “If I go in there, they’ll take me away for real.”

  “Who?”

  “DSS. They’ll take me from Steve’s and lock me up with some stiff-necked do-gooder who makes me take a bath three times a day and won’t let me out of the house.”

  “That or somebody looking for a check from the state. They’ll feed you bread and wate
r. Make you sleep on the floor. Make you their slave.”

  “Shut up, Jack.”

  “I’m serious.”

  “No, you’re not.”

  Jack stumbled closer and squinted at the windows. When he spoke this time, he really was serious. “They’re probably worried. Your mom and all.”

  “I can’t think about that right now.”

  “Why not?”

  Johnny took Jack by the shirt and pulled him up. “Come on,” he said.

  “Where?”

  “Just come on.”

  He marched Jack to the truck. “Wait here.”

  “Dude …”

  But Johnny wasn’t listening. Ignoring the cop cars, he tried the door on Steve’s van. Locked. In the yard, he pried a loose brick from the edge of the sidewalk. A straight walk back to the van, brick up in his right hand. He smashed the van’s window, reached in and opened the glove compartment.

  At the truck, he snatched the bottle out of Jack’s hands and tossed it into the dark. He handed Jack the box of shells. “Hold these.”

  “What is that?”

  “And this.” He shoved the pistol into Jack’s hands.

  “Oh, shit.”

  Johnny opened the door and looked hard at his friend. “You coming this time?”

  “Oh, fuck,” Jack said, and Johnny fired up the truck.

  —

  Johnny kept it at the speed limit, then coasted to a stop at the top of the hill. Below them, the road stretched all the way to Johnny’s house.

  “What are we doing?”

  “I need to get something.”

  “Anybody there, you think?”

  “One way to find out.”

  Johnny took them down the hill and the house came up on the right. A few lights burned. Nothing in the driveway. He eased the truck in and switched off the engine. The night air was still. Nothing moved in the house. “Looks empty.” Johnny climbed out and tried his key in the front door. “It doesn’t work,” he said.

  “Is it the right key?”

  Johnny tried again. “She must have changed the locks.”

  “Why?”

  “Holloway, I guess.”

  “That’s good, right?”

  “If that’s what it means.”