John Hart - The Last Child

Johnny checked the door over Jack’s shoulder. “Can you come outside?”

“I don’t think so.” Jack looked shamefaced. “You know about the lockdown, right? Tiffany Shore?”

“I know about it.”

“The school called my dad when they couldn’t find me.”

“My mom, too.”

“Yeah. Well. He caught me with his beer and I was still drunk. I’m in it deep. Mom’s at church, praying for Tiffany’s life and my eternal soul.” He rolled his eyes, then hooked a thumb at the door. “Dickhead’s in charge. He’s supposed to keep an eye on me.” Jack pressed closer to the crack. “But this dead guy. That must have been intense. What’s happening now? I heard some of the stuff my dad said. Did he really have something to do with Tiffany?”

“Or my sister.”

“I doubt that.”

“It could be her.”

“It’s been a year, Johnny. You’ve got to be realistic. Odds are-”

“Don’t tell me about the odds!”

Jack hesitated. “You’re going out, aren’t you?”

“I have to.”

Jack shook his head, face gone serious. “Don’t do it, man. This is not the night to be sneaking around. Every cop in town is out there. Whoever did this is going to be looking out. He’s going to be alert.”

Johnny shook his head. “Tiffany was taken today. It’s early. That’s when people make mistakes.”

“Where are you going?”

“You know where I’m going.”

“Don’t do it, man. I’m serious. I’ve got a bad feeling.”

Johnny did not back down. “I want you to come with me.” Jack looked over his shoulder. The door was still closed. Johnny put his fingers on the sill. “I need help.”

“I never agreed to go to those houses. That was always the line for me, and you know it.”

“This is different.”

“You’re gonna get killed. Some freak show is going to catch you, and he’s going to kill you.” Jack’s face bled out and he begged with his entire body. “Don’t do it.”

Johnny looked away, out into the dark neighborhood. “I choked, Jack.”

“What do you mean?”

“The guy landed right at my feet. I heard his bones break. There was blood everywhere. One eye was about to pop out of his head.”

“Get out. Really?”

“He knew where she was. You get that? Whoever ran him off the road did it on purpose so he couldn’t tell.” Johnny raised a fist. “I was right there.”

“So?”

“I got scared. I ran.”

“So you ran. So, what? I’d be in Virginia by now.”

Johnny didn’t hear him. His words came like he could still see it. “The guy was coming around the car.” He shook his head. “I heard metal, like he was dragging a pipe. Big engine, just growling. And the guy, man, he was shitting himself he was so scared. He told me to run.”

“There you go. He told you.”

“Don’t you get it, man? He knew where she was and I ran! She’s my sister. My twin.”

“Don’t, Johnny.”

“I have to make it right.” Johnny’s face filled the crack at the bottom of the window. “And it has to be tonight. This is my chance, Jack. I can fix it, but I don’t know if I can do it alone. I need you to come with me.”

Jack fidgeted, threw a desperate glance at the closed door. “Don’t ask me, Johnny. I can’t do it. Not tonight.”

Johnny leaned back, disappointed and angry. “What’s wrong with you, Jack? Earlier today, all you wanted to do was get out there and look. You couldn’t wait to play outlaw.”

Jack pleaded. “But this is not for play, is it? This just happened. This is fresh. For real. Say you find this guy… You’re gonna get fucking killed.”

“This is the time. Now. Right this second.”

“Johnny-”

“In or out, Jack.”

“Dude…” The answer was all over him.

Johnny saw it, plain as day. “No sweat,” Johnny said, and then he was gone.

Katherine Merrimon stumbled down the last step and into the rain. She bent at the waist, lurched into the yard. “Johnny!” Her mouth shone pale and pink. She was barefoot and wild-eyed, her pupils dilated. She stumbled again, went down in the mud. An oversized T-shirt hung to her knees, and within seconds it was soaked. Mud shone on her legs.

She was frightened, probably medicated, so Hunt moved with caution. He’d seen mental breakdowns before, and that’s what this looked like, like she was ripped at the seams. He held out his hands, fingers spread. “Mrs. Merrimon.”

“Johnny!” Irrational. Face turned up as the rain beat down.

Hunt guessed that Tiffany Shore ’s abduction had scraped the soil off whatever poor grave she’d made for thoughts of her daughter’s fate. She’d woken to an empty house, to another empty bed.

“Mrs. Merrimon,” Hunt spoke softly.

She looked up, and even with the light full on her face, her eyes remained wide and dark. “Where’s my son?”

Hunt knelt and placed his hands on her shoulders. “It’s okay,” he said. “Everything will be okay.”

For that second, she calmed; then her face cracked, and when she spoke, her voice was so soft he barely heard it. “Where’s Alyssa?” she asked, but Hunt had no answer. He watched the grief take her down. It broke her at the waist. She splayed her hands on the ground, dug her fingers into soft earth. “Make it stop,” she whispered.

Hunt’s duty was clear. She needed help. Johnny needed to be taken from her and placed in a stable environment. He should be on the phone to Social Services; he knew as much. But he knew something else as well. If he took her son, it would destroy the last good bit of her, and he couldn’t do that. She rocked in the mud.

“Please make it stop.”

“Katherine…”

“My babies…”

Hunt sat back on his heels, laid a hand on her shoulder. “Trust me,” he said. When she looked up, eyes tortured and lost, he said her name again, then took her arm to help her stand.

Twenty minutes later, the rain had stopped. A marked car turned into the drive, and Hunt saw a flash of blond as the dome light winked on and Officer Laura Taylor made for the porch. She was in her late twenties, broad-bodied but with a narrow face. She’d had a thing for Hunt once upon a time, but that was ancient history. Now she was in love with a NASCAR driver out of Charlotte. The driver had no idea who she was, but that didn’t bother her. Persistence, according to Officer Taylor, was a virtue.

She clumped up the steps and frowned as she spoke. “You’re looking sharp, Hunt.”

“What do you mean?”

She gestured at his clothes. “Wet clothes. Mud on your suit.” The gesture rose to include his head. “What are you, a surfer now?”

“A surfer?” Hunt touched his hair. Soaking wet, it hung below his collar.

“I can cut that for you.”

“That’s okay.”

“Suit yourself.” She pushed past him to glance through the open door. “You were pretty vague on the phone.”

Taylor was a stickler for the rules, but Hunt chose her for a reason. Underneath it all, the cop, the regulations, and the ball-breaking attitude, Taylor was a soft touch. Hunt trusted her to do what was right. “I just need you to keep an eye on her,” he said. “Make sure she doesn’t do anything stupid.”

“How bad is it?”

“She’s in bed, calm for the moment; but she’s on something, pills probably. She’s lost it once. Could pop again. But she’s a good person and tomorrow’s another day. I think she deserves a chance.”

When Taylor leaned back, she looked unimpressed. “Word around town is that she’s pretty messed up.”

“Messed up, how?”

“Don’t get defensive.”

“I’m not.”

A smile under glittering eyes. “Bullshit. Look at you. White lips, those ropes in your neck. You look like I’m talking about your mother. Or your wife.”