John Hart - The Last Child

“No.”

But the Chief spelled it out. “If we assume that Wilson found Tiffany Shore -and that is what we’re assuming-then you should be backtracking his activities. Where he went. Who he talked to. Any choice he made today, any path that could have intersected with Tiffany Shore -”

“I know all that,” Hunt interrupted sharply. “I sent Yoakum to his house. I’ll meet him there shortly, but this comes first.”

“Do I want to know why you’re going to Katherine Merrimon’s house?” Hunt heard the doubt, the sudden distrust.

“Her son may have information.”

Hunt pictured the Chief: flunkies in his office, fat man’s sweat staining his shirt. His voice was a politician’s voice.

“I need to know that you’re on this, Hunt. Are you on this?”

“That’s a bullshit question.” Hunt knew the source of the Chief’s doubt, but could not hide the anger he felt. So he spent time on the Merrimon case. So what? Maybe he felt more than most cops would. It was an important case; but that’s not how the Chief saw it. No. He heard about Hunt, awake every night at three in the morning; Hunt, showing up at sunrise on a Sunday to pore over evidence he’d already seen a hundred times; harassing judges to sign warrants that never panned out; working overtime, then off the clock; leveraging other cops, resources that should be spent on other cases. He watched Hunt work himself ragged. He saw the pale skin and the weight loss, the sleepless eyes and the stacks of files on the floor of Hunt’s office. And there were other issues.

Rumors.

“It’s not a question, Hunt. It’s a demand, an imperative.”

Hunt clamped his teeth, barely able to speak around the emotion he was choking down. He ran major crimes. Lead detective. That was his job, his life. “I said, I’m on it.”

Hunt heard breath on the line, then a voice, muffled in the background. When the Chief spoke, his words came with precision. “I have no room for personal, Hunt. Not on this case.”

Hunt stared straight ahead. “Got it. No personal.”

“This is about Tiffany Shore. Her family. Not Alyssa Merrimon. Not her brother. And not her mother. Are we clear?”

“ Crystal.”

A long pause, then a voice that hinted at regret. “Personal gets you fired, Clyde. It gets you drummed right the hell out of my department. Don’t make me do that.”

“I don’t need a lecture.” He left the rest unsaid: Not from some fat, politician cop .

“You’ve already lost your wife. Don’t lose your job, too.”

Hunt looked in the mirror and saw the rage in his own eyes. He pulled air deep into his lungs. “Just stay out of my way,” he said, and sounded like a reasonable man might sound. “Show a little faith.”

“You’ve been burning the faith candle for a year, and it’s burned pretty damn low. When the papers go to bed tomorrow night, I want to see a picture of Tiffany Shore sitting on her mother’s lap. Front page. That’s how we keep our jobs.” A pause, Hunt unwilling to trust his voice and therefore silent. “Give me a happy ending, Clyde. Give me that, and I’ll pretend you’re the same cop you were a year ago.”

The Chief hung up.

Hunt punched the roof of his car, then turned into Johnny’s driveway. He noticed at once that the station wagon was gone. When he knocked on the front door, it rattled enough to make the house sound hollow. Hunt looked through the small window and saw Ken Holloway emerging from the dark hall. He wore shined shoes under slightly wrinkled pants, and worked to get his shirt tucked in. He cinched up an alligator belt, then paused at a mirror to smooth his hair and check his teeth. A revolver hung in his right hand.

“Police, Mr. Holloway. Put down the gun and open the door.”

Holloway twitched, suddenly aware that he could be seen through the window. A deprecating smile rose on his face. “Police who?”

“Detective Clyde Hunt. I need to speak to Johnny.”

The smile disappeared. “May I see a badge?”

Hunt pressed his shield to the glass, then stepped away from the door and lowered one hand to the butt of his service weapon. Holloway donated money to good causes. He served on boards and played golf with powerful people.

But Hunt knew the man.

It had taken a year of watching Katherine and Johnny: odd encounters, like the one at the grocery store; things said and not said; a limp or a bruise; the boy’s naked eyes when he thought he was being tough. Hunt had pushed, but Katherine was gone most of the time, out of it, and Johnny was scared. Hunt had nothing solid.

But he knew.

Another step back cleared three feet between Hunt and the door. The dark bulk of Holloway’s chest was visible through the slash of window. He looked meaty and tan, with a broad chest above a thick stomach. His face appeared behind the glass. “It’s the middle of the night, Detective.”

“It’s barely nine, Mr. Holloway. A child has been abducted. Please open the door.”

The lock disengaged and the door swung open a foot. Creases cut the flesh of Holloway’s face, but Hunt saw damp spots at the hairline where he’d tried to make himself crisp. His hands were empty. “What does Tiffany Shore ’s disappearance have to do with Johnny?”

“Can you step away from the door, please?” Hunt kept his voice professional, which was hard. He’d as soon shoot Ken Holloway as look at him.

“Very well.” Holloway pushed the door wide and turned, his hands slapping the sides of his legs.

Hunt stepped inside, eyes cutting left and right until he spotted the weapon, a.38 caliber revolver. Stainless. It sat on top of the television, barrel angled to the wall.

“It’s registered,” Holloway said.

“I’m sure it is. I need to speak with Johnny.”

“This is about what happened today?”

Hunt smelled alcohol. “Do you really care?”

Holloway smiled without humor. “Just a minute.” He raised his voice. “Johnny.” No answer. He called again, then cursed under his breath. The hall swallowed him up and Hunt heard a door open, then slam closed. When he returned, he came alone. “He’s not here.”

“Where is he?”

“I have no idea.”

Anger rose in Hunt’s voice. “He’s thirteen years old. It’s dark out and raining. The car is gone and you have no idea where he is? As far as I’m concerned, that constitutes neglect.”

“And as I understand the law, Detective, that’s his mother’s problem. I’m a guest in this house.”

Their eyes locked, and Hunt stepped closer. Holloway was a two-faced user, slick and accommodating, but only when it served his needs. There may be buildings named after him at the college, but Hunt could not hide his dislike. “You need to be careful with me.”

“Is that a threat?”

Hunt said nothing.

“You have no idea who I am,” Holloway said.

“If harm comes to that boy…”

Holloway smiled coldly. “What’s your name again? I have a meeting tomorrow with the mayor and the city manager. I’d like to get it right.”

Hunt spelled it for him, then said, “About the boy.”

“He’s a delinquent. What do you want me to do about it? He’s neither my son nor my responsibility. Now, do you want me to get his mother? I may be able to wake her. She won’t know where he is, but I’ll haul her out here if it will make you happy.”

Hunt had admired Johnny’s mother since they’d first met. Small but full of life, she’d shown courage and faith under unbearable circumstances. She’d stayed strong until the day she fell apart, at which point the collapse was total. Maybe it was grief, maybe it was guilt, but she was tragic and lost, adrift in the kind of horror that few parents could imagine. The thought of her with a user like Ken Holloway was bad enough. Seeing her dragged out of bed by him would be even worse, a degradation.