John Hart - The Last Child

“Shared address is all we know. Could be housemates. Could be more.”

Hunt studied the arrest sheet for Levi Freemantle. It seemed incomplete. “These are bullshit arrests. Trespass. Loitering. Shoplifting, for God’s sake. Nothing violent. No sex.”

“It is what it is.”

The sheet looked like a hundred others, so nondescript that Hunt felt like he knew the guy, like he knew a thousand of them; but six five and three hundred pounds was not something to forget. He double-checked the dates and confirmed that Levi Freemantle had been released from jail three days before Alyssa Merrimon was abducted. He’d walked off an inmate road crew one week before Tiffany Shore’s disappearance. If it was a coincidence, it was a big one. Then there was David Wilson, murdered, who claimed to have found the missing girl. Freemantle’s print was on the body. Johnny’s description matched. The timing. The bend in the river.

Hunt put down the papers. “Call Cross. Find out where we are.”

“He knows what to do.”

“Call him, John.”

Yoakum dialed Cross’s cell and asked how long he would be with the warrant. When he hung up, his voice was flat. “He says he doesn’t know. The judge won’t be rushed.”

“Damn it.” Hunt stood. “Let’s take a ride.”

Yoakum grabbed his jacket and shrugged it on as he hurried after Hunt. “We’re not going in without a warrant, are we?”

“Doing so would be stupid.”

“That’s not an answer.”

Hunt ignored him, his feet loud on the hard, textured steps going down. Yoakum spoke louder. “Damn it, Clyde, that’s not an answer.”

Huron Street turned sharp left off one of the main thoroughfares, then died on the wrong side of the tracks four miles from the city square. This part of town was near the front edge of the sand hills; you could tell from the temperature and from the vegetation. The sand held the heat, so the air was hotter. Trees grew smaller in the weak soil. The street ran narrow and short, with yards full of weed and dirt and dogs on strong chains. Hunt knew it well enough to take it seriously. Two years ago, he’d worked a murder scene on the third block in: a woman stabbed to death in her own bathtub. Turned out her son did it because she’d refused to loan him money. She died over fifty bucks.

Hard people.

A mean street.

Hunt took the left and slowed two houses in. He killed the lights, drifted over a shattered bottle, and stopped. The road stretched out, a river of dark and poverty that died at silver rails leading to better places. Small, blue light leaked through curtains in a house to the left. Crickets scraped in the weeds.

“This is a bad idea,” Yoakum said.

Hunt moved his chin. “Last block down. On the right.”

Yoakum’s head swiveled. His lips drew tight as he peered down the dark stretch. “Jesus.”

Hunt studied the street, too. He saw dull yards with dirt tracks that ran from the front stoop to the road, a mattress on the curb, sofas on porches. Cars sat on blocks. Even the sky seemed heavier than it should.

Two houses down, a pit bull paced side to side and eyed them from the end of its chain.

“I hate this shit,” Yoakum said.

“Let’s go in a bit farther.”

“Why?”

“I want to see if there’s a car at Freemantle’s house. Or lights.”

Hunt kept his headlights off and eased the car into gear. They rolled another twenty feet and the pit bull stopped pacing. Yoakum pushed back into his seat. “Bad idea,” he said, and the dog lunged the full length of its chain, barking with such venom that it felt like it was in the car. Chains rattled up and down the street as other dogs joined in. Lights flicked on in two of the houses.

“Bad idea,” Hunt agreed, and put the car in reverse. He whipped around the corner and shifted into drive.

After a minute of silence, Yoakum said: “That might be a problem.”

“The dogs?”

“He’ll hear us coming four blocks away.”

Hunt looked at his watch. “Maybe not.”

“How so?”

“Trust me.”

Yoakum looked out the window. Hunt opened his cell and dialed Cross, who answered on the first ring. “I need that warrant,” Hunt said. “I need it in twenty minutes.”

“It’s this judge.” Cross’s frustration showed. “He’s going over the affidavit for the third time.”

“What? The document is crystal clear. There’s probable cause written all over it. Lean on him.”

“I tried already.”

“Which judge is it?” Hunt asked, and Cross told him. “Put him on the phone.”

“He won’t.”

“Just do it.”

Hunt waited. Yoakum looked sideways. “You’re going to pressure the judge?”

“I’m going to threaten him.”

The judge came on the phone. “This is highly inappropriate, Detective.”

“Is there some problem with the warrant application?” Hunt asked.

“I have your affidavit and I will make my ruling once I’ve had the full opportunity-”

Hunt cut him off. “Twelve-year-old child dies while judge dallies over warrant. That’s the headline if we’re too late. I have connections at the paper, people who owe me. I’ll make sure of it.”

“You wouldn’t dare.”

“Fucking try me.”

Thirty minutes later, the cops assembled in an empty lot behind one of the local banks. They had their warrant. It was ten minutes after three, dark and quiet. Overhead, a street light snapped and sizzled, then burned out with an audible crack. Five cops, six counting Hunt. He shrugged a vest over his head, slapped the Velcro in place and checked his weapon a second time. Yoakum met him at the back of the dark blue panel truck with the small gold shield on the back door. “You ready?”

Yoakum looked concerned. “We should wait.”

“No.”

“Going in dark is a needless risk. Strange house, hostile street. He’ll hear the dogs when we’re still four blocks out.”

“We move now.”

Yoakum shook his head. “You’re going to get somebody hurt.”

“Everybody here knows what they signed up for. This is not the Boy Scouts.”

“And this is not some effete judge rubbing you the wrong way. This is the street. This is you putting good cops in harm’s way when a few more hours might make a world of difference. The Chief is looking for an excuse to fry your ass, and getting somebody hurt is the best gift you could give him. Be smart, Clyde. For once. Put this in perspective.”

Hunt seized his friend by the arm. He squeezed hard and felt bone. “What if it was your daughter? Your sister? That’s the perspective, and you need to line up on it.” Hunt dropped the arm and tried to turn away, but Yoakum wasn’t finished.

“You’re running on emotion.”

Hunt studied his friend, eyes black in the night, face pale and clenched. “Don’t go against me on this, John. I’m finding this kid and I’m finding her alive.”

“It’s on your head if somebody gets hurt.”

“And on yours if she dies while we dick around in this parking lot. Now, are you done?”

Yoakum’s features settled into determined planes. He cracked his knuckles and nodded. “I’m tired of talking anyway.”

Hunt snapped his fingers and the other cops circled around: Yoakum, Cross, and three uniforms in full body armor. “This is who we want.” He held up a poor copy of an arrest photo pulled from one of the old files. “He has severe scarring on the right side of his face. The kid that identified him said it looked melted, like wax. He’s six and a half feet tall and weighs three hundred pounds. I don’t think we’ll find more than one guy with this description, so it should be easy.”

A few nervous laughs. Hunt let them have it. “It’s the last block before the tracks, last house on the right. It sits back from the road with an empty lot behind it, tracks on one side, an occupied residence on the other. I want those three sides covered before we go in. The streetlamps are mostly busted, so it’ll be dark. The yards will be dead grass and flat dirt except for where the roots and trash make it not so flat. So watch your step. Once the van stops, Yoakum deploys first. He takes two of you with him.” Hunt pointed at two of the uniformed cops. “You’ll cover the back and sides in case he bolts. I’ll take the rest and go in the front. Cross is on the hammer, but I’m first man in. Now, this guy is huge, so no messing around. Get him down and get him down fast. The girl may be stashed elsewhere, so control your fire. We need him alive and we need him talking.”