The Last Child

by John Hart

  Steve leaned left to see between the two scrub cedars. A line of small houses backed up to the field of weeds. Hunt saw narrow patios and busted grills, a few bikes. Steve pointed again. “See the gray house with the red bike on the back patio?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Third one to the left of that.”

  Hunt counted left, saw a low ranch with flaking paint and a dead holly at the corner. No lights. No movement. He pointed it out to Yoakum.

  “Does he live alone?” Hunt asked.

  “I think so.”

  “You stay here.” Hunt checked Yoakum. “You ready?”

  “Right as rain.”

  They hopped the ditch and slipped into the field, bent at the waist, weapons out and angled low. Weeds grew tall and put long, wet fingers on them as they moved. Thunder crashed. The trail was wet and slick.

  They stopped in the last bit of cover before the bare yard that wrapped Meechum’s house. A smell hung in the air, a chemical reek that came from nowhere.

  They dashed the last twenty feet, put their backs to the wall beneath the largest window. Water sheeted from blocked gutters. The chemical smell was stronger, something burning. Hunt eased up to the window. The curtains were drawn but gapped open in the middle. It was the living room, a dingy space with old furnishings and low ceilings. The carpet was yellow orange, the walls cheap pine panels. Meechum was as Steve had described him. Wiry and crooked, he bent above his computer, shirt dark with sweat. In the fireplace, computer discs were mounded and aflame. “He’s burning evidence,” Hunt said, dropping down, making for the back door. “You’re on the front door. We go in sixty seconds.”

  Yoakum moved to the front and left Hunt alone in the rain. He risked one more look through the rear window. Hair rose wild from Meechum’s head. He stabbed the keys, then slapped the side of the computer, slapped it again. Hunt did not see the ax until Meechum reached for it. It leaned against the desk, a hickory shaft and a blade that was rusted black except where it gleamed silver along the bit. It came up and Meechum’s face locked, lips back, eyes tight; then the ax came down with a grunt, a crash of plastic, and shattered glass.

  The computer.

  Damn it.

  Hunt dropped from the window, bolted for the door. He tried the knob. Locked. He put his shoulder to the wood, found it flimsy and cheap. The doorjamb splintered under his weight, and he was in the kitchen, linoleum slippery under his muddy feet. A hint of motion through the door to the living room and Hunt’s weapon came up as he entered. “Police! Police, God damn it!”

  The computer was staved in at the top, Meechum above it, ax up and frozen as he stared at the drawn pistol. Hunt saw panic in his eyes. “Don’t.” Hunt stepped farther into the room, squared up his line of fire. The room stank of burning plastic.

  Meechum shook his head, lizard of a tongue darting out.

  “Just put down the ax.” Hunt looked for Yoakum, then heard glass break at the front door.

  “Just put it down,” Hunt said.

  The man’s face twisted. His chest pumped as black smoke snaked up the chimney. Hunt saw the decision firm up in Meechum’s face, even as motion winked in the door behind him. Hunt saw a flash of metal, Yoakum, gun up, rounding into the room.

  The ax head lifted as Meechum’s spine bent.

  “No,” Hunt yelled, but it was too late.

  Meechum swung the ax, and Yoakum shot him through the heart.

  The body dropped facedown, a small twitch in two bent fingers. Hunt crossed to the fireplace and kicked discs away from the flames. Seizing the poker, he dug deeper, spread the flaming plastic out and tried to save what he could. Eventually, Yoakum helped him. Five discs were unscathed, another dozen charred. Ten were ruined beyond hope of recovery.

  Hunt stepped back. His shoes were blacked, his throat stinging. He stared at Yoakum, whose face was placid. “Did you have to kill him?” Hunt asked.

  Yoakum looked at the body. “He went for you with an ax.”

  “He went for the computer.”

  Yoakum’s face showed neither apology nor regret. “Bad angle. My view of you was obstructed. I couldn’t see if you had a gun up or not. The ax was coming down as I entered the room. I thought he was going for you.”

  “I wish you hadn’t killed him.”

  “It was a clean shoot.”

  Hunt paused, very still. “I never said it wasn’t.”

  “It was clean.” Blood scent rose in the room. Yoakum holstered his weapon, eyes dark and glassy smooth. “Squeaky,” he said, and turned away.

  —

  Five minutes later, backup arrived, and with it came the Chief, and the questions, none of which were easy. Cops flooded the house. The storm continued. By sundown, the body was gone, the discs bagged and delivered to the department’s best computer technician. The Chief called Hunt and Yoakum into the kitchen. “One last time. Tell me this is the guy.”

  “We think he was associated with Burton Jarvis.”

  “Why?”

  “Stolen plates. The dead cat from the mall. Johnny Merrimon’s notes—”

  “Don’t talk to me about that kid’s notes.”

  “His descriptions line up,” Hunt insisted. “Age, height, hair color. We’ve been through this three times.”

  “Do it again.”

  So he did. Hunt explained everything. The Chief did not interrupt. He barely blinked.

  “We saved some of the discs,” Hunt concluded. “The hard drive looks intact. It should tell us more.”

  The Chief stared from one man to the next. “I want both of you at the station,” he said. “I want your statements. Beyond that, I don’t want either of you to say a word to anyone about this, not to each other, not to your girlfriends or any other cops—not until I have your statements locked. Are we clear?”

  “Yes.”

  The Chief pointed at the door. “Statements. Now.”

  “I’m ready for a beer,” Yoakum replied. “How about we do statements tomorrow?”

  The Chief was not amused. “Statements,” he said. “From both of you. Separately. Then I want you to go home and get some sleep. Tomorrow I need to figure out what to make of this cluster fuck.”

  “Cluster fuck,” Yoakum repeated, an edge in is voice.

  “What would you call it?” The Chief refused to back down.

  “The shoot was clean.”

  The Chief put his hands on his hips, thrust out his soft, round jaw. “A man was gunned down in his own living room. It had damn well better be.”

  —

  Hunt drove his own car but Yoakum was ordered to ride with a patrolman. “I don’t like the feel of this,” Yoakum had said, but both men understood. The Chief did not want them discussing their statements while they drove. He wanted them unrehearsed and unprepared. Hunt did not see Yoakum when he arrived. He was met at the door by an internal affairs officer named Matthews. He was new to the jurisdiction, so Hunt knew him by sight and reputation only. He was supposedly smart, supposedly a decent guy. He had washed-out eyes and a disapproving mouth; he limped slightly as he led Hunt to an unused conference room. At first, the questions were standard, of the sort asked after any shooting, and if they were longer than usual, more involved, it was because the shooting was fatal. Hunt took it in stride. He’d been through it before.

  The questions took an unexpected turn thirty minutes in.

  “You and Detective Yoakum are friends, is that right?”

  “We’re partners.”

  “That answer is nonresponsive, Detective.”

  “John Yoakum is my friend.”

  “Have you ever seen Detective Yoakum fire his weapon in anger?”

  “No. Of course not.”

  “Has he ever used excessive force?”

  “How much force to apply is a judgment call. Detective Yoakum has always exercised impeccable judgment.”

  “In your opinion?”

  “Yes.”

  “As his friend.”

  “As lead de
tective of major crimes.” Hunt felt heat under his shirt. “As an officer with seventeen years’ experience. Are we finished yet?”

  “A few more questions.”

  “Get on with it then.”

  Matthews drummed the head of a pencil on the table and slouched back in his seat. “Detective Yoakum was in your office earlier today?”

  “Yes.”

  “What were you discussing?”

  Hunt’s patience evaporated. “We’ve had more than a few things to discuss lately.”

  Matthews’s lips turned, but the smile did not touch his eyes. “Of course.” The pencil tapped. “Tiffany Shore. The murdered children.” He could have been talking about a pot dealer or a speed trap.

  “I’m going to give you exactly one more minute,” Hunt said. “Then I am walking out of here.”

  Matthews leaned forward. “While in your office today, did Detective Yoakum say that someone should die for what was done to those children?”

  Hunt said nothing.

  “Did he say that?”

  “I think we’re finished.” Hunt stood.

  “You haven’t answered my question.”

  Hunt kept his voice tight. “What was or was not said in my office has no bearing on what happened today. Meechum had an ax. Yoakum did what he thought he had to do.”

  “Are you sure about that, Detective?” Matthews tipped his chair back against the wall, and Hunt saw that there was no joy on the man’s face. “Think about it.”

  Hunt spoke to no one as he left the station. His watch said seven when he stepped out of the station and into pounding rain. He walked, unfeeling, to his car. Inside, in the moist, close air, his hands found the wheel, the ignition. He looked for news crews but saw none. Maybe it was the weather.

  Someone heard.

  Through his closed office door, someone heard what Yoakum said.

  Hunt squeezed the wheel and replayed Yoakum’s heart shot. The ax was up, Yoakum rounding into the room as the blade started down. It looked the same, but felt different.

  Or did it?

  After a minute, Hunt called his son at home. Seven rings, then music in the background. Hunt tried to hide his fatigue, his unsettled nature. “Hey, Allen.”

  “What?”

  “Have you had dinner yet?”

  “I’m smoking crack and watching porn. What do you care?”

  Hunt bit down on his own emotion. “I’ll be home soon. Want me to bring something?”

  Outside, Yoakum emerged from the front door of the station. He looked once at Hunt, then raised a hand and made a gun of his fingers. Hunt flicked the lights. Yoakum pulled the trigger, then walked to his own car, as oblivious of the rain as Hunt had been.

  “Chinese,” Allen stated, “but bring it in an hour.”

  Yoakum opened his door, closed it. They were on opposite sides of the lot, the two of them. Facing each other.

  “Why an hour?”

  “Because I’m doing stuff.”

  Hunt was so tired of the wall between them, the sturdiness of it, the way it grew taller every day.

  Yoakum slid into his car and Hunt felt it when the engine fired. “How about a movie after we eat? Like we used to.”

  “I don’t think so.”

  “Just like that?”

  “Yeah. Pretty much.”

  Yoakum pulled out of the lot as the kid hung up. Hunt closed his phone and watched him go. They should talk, but Hunt wasn’t ready to do that. Not yet. Not even close. He had an hour. Katherine was only ten minutes away. He thought about it, then started the car. He drove five miles under the speed limit, car sure-footed on the glassy roads, but as the edge of town approached, he found himself driving faster. He wanted to see her, he realized. In that minute, rain beating the road to a river of black mist, he wanted it more than anything else.

  His car rose on the hill then dropped, lights slashing down, small houses strung out below. They were well spaced, hints of spilled light and drab color tucked back into the trees; but that’s not how it was at Katherine’s house. Hunt slowed and ducked his head to see through a windshield slightly fogged. Her driveway was empty, her car still impounded, but news trucks lined the street. Nine of them. A dozen.

  Hunt’s head turned as he slid past. CNN. FOX. WRAL. A bunch more. He turned into the drive, passing close to the nearest trucks, and doors slid open as news crews spilled out into the storm. They were too savvy to come onto Katherine’s yard, but shouted questions from the street as soon as Hunt stepped into the rain.

  Have you found Johnny yet?

  Is it true that he’s led you to a serial child murderer?

  The cameras were prepped for bad weather. The talent wore slickers but grew quickly damp and smudged. The questions continued. No order. No pretense at decorum. They’d been waiting in the rain, and Hunt was already making for the house.

  Detective, is it true that the body count stands at seven?

  That was Channel Nine. Hunt knew the guy.

  Is Alyssa Merrimon among the dead?

  Louder.

  Detective? Detective?

  The questions came faster, shouted through the downpour. Hunt turned his back. Katherine answered on the second knock, small and pale and beautiful.

  Mrs. Merrimon—

  A flurry. Hunt put himself between her and the cameras. Her smile was not as forced as Hunt feared it might be. “May I come in?” he asked.

  She let him in, closed the door. “Johnny?”

  “Not yet.”

  She stepped aside and Hunt shrugged off his wet coat. Only one light burned in the house. She cracked a curtain and peered out. A cup of coffee sat cold on the small table by the sofa. “Is it true?” She showed one dark eye, then looked back outside. “What they’re saying?”

  “What are they saying?”

  “That you found a mass grave. That you would never have found it without Johnny.”

  “It’s true.”

  “I can’t bear to ask.”

  “We have no reason to believe that Alyssa’s body is there. But …”

  “But what?” She turned from the window, eyes fragile, chin tilted.

  “We’ve not exhumed all of the bodies yet. The rain forced us to stop.”

  “So, tomorrow?”

  “Tomorrow, we’ll see.”

  She wrapped her arms around herself. “Can I offer you some coffee? Or tea? I don’t have anything hard.”

  “Coffee would be great.” She sounded terrible, Hunt thought, but was keeping it together better than he’d hoped she might. “I only have a few minutes.”

  “Coffee.” She turned.

  “Thank you, Katherine.”

  She poured coffee into a mug and handed it to him. “So there’s nothing? No word at all?”

  She was asking about Johnny. “No,” he said. “I’m sorry.” She looked at the window and at the storm beyond. Then she sat on the sofa and Hunt sat next to her. “He’s a tough kid,” Hunt said. “We’re looking.”

  “Can’t you do more? Anything? An Amber Alert?”

  “Those are never used unless there’s clear evidence of an abduction, and we don’t believe he’s been abducted. All evidence is that he’s out on his own. Somewhere. Given his past behavior …”

  She closed her eyes, beat fists on her thighs. “Johnny …” She shook her head. “Damn it, Johnny. Where are you?”

  “He’s smart, Katherine. He’ll be okay. We’ll find him.”

  When she opened her eyes, her face was glass, and Hunt could tell that she was moving the conversation forward. “Ken has come three times today.”

  Hunt hid his sudden worry. “I thought he’d moved on. He said as much.”

  “That’s not what Ken Holloway does. If he told you that, he was lying.”

  “Threats?” Hunt asked.

  “He rattled the door, whispered a few ugly things.”

  “Did he make any threats?” Hunt pushed. He could charge Holloway for communicating threats. It would go well
with the obstruction charge. They were small charges for a man like Holloway, but they would get him locked up, if only for a little while. They would keep him away from Katherine.

  “Can we just sit?” She asked. “Can we just sit in the quiet?”

  Hunt let it go, the anger and the concern. “Sure,” he said, and they sat as his coffee cooled, and as the news crews gave up and climbed back into the vans. After a moment, Hunt noticed that she was clutching something in her hands, pressing her palms together and squeezing her hands between her legs.

  “I was in Johnny’s room earlier today. You know …”

  She trailed off and Hunt could see her there, touching the boy’s things, working hard to suppress the fear and doubt.

  “I found these.” She unfolded her hands and Hunt saw a stack of his business cards. They were wrinkled, palmed and damp. She looked up, met his eyes. “Nineteen of them.”

  A shocking clarity shone in her face and Hunt felt a strange and sudden embarrassment. “I wanted Johnny to know there was someone to call,” Hunt said. “If things got bad.”

  She nodded, unsurprised. “After I discovered these, I looked around the house and found all of the ones you’ve given to me. I threw a lot away, I know that, but I still found another dozen.”

  “It’s my job,” Hunt said.

  The clarity never wavered. “Is it?” Hunt looked away. “You’ve always been there for us.”

  “Any good cop would do the same.”

  “I don’t think so.” Her shoulder brushed, once, against Hunt’s, and he felt a charge, a blue spark that snapped and stung. “Thank you,” she said, and they sat in the quiet, the two of them, side by side. She drew her legs up, tucked her hands back into her lap and laid her head on his shoulder. Hunt felt the narrowness of her arm pressed against his, the warmth of her skin as cold rain battered the window. “Thank you,” she said again.

  And Hunt held himself very still.

  CHAPTER FORTY

  The storm was so fierce that Johnny saw nothing of the sun as it dropped behind the curve of the earth. The rain fell, stinging cold, and the temperature came down with it. The air went from gray to blue to near black, but Johnny didn’t move, not even when lightning fell in a hot-white flash that split the air with a sound like breaking stone. He hunched into himself. He sat against the wall and watched Levi Freemantle scrape the last sodden dirt onto the grave, then smooth it with the shovel and sit. Water came off the big man in sheets, and he settled into wet earth as if the mud rose around him. Nothing felt real. Johnny barely twitched when Jack leaned over the wall and said, “Johnny.”