John Hart - The Last Child

Hunt tilted it, squinted. “It came off a stuffed animal.”

“What?”

Hunt looked closer. “I think it’s an eye.” He held out a hand. “Give me a bag.” Yoakum passed over a plastic bag. Hunt placed the plastic eye in the bag and sealed it. “I want this room dusted.” Hunt stood.

“Where are you going?” Yoakum asked.

“I’m tired of this shit.”

Hunt stormed out of the house and onto the porch. People still stood in tight knots, captivated by the sight of cops who presented no actual threat. Looking at them, at their complacence and their disregard, Hunt felt his anger boil into rage. Pitching his voice to carry, Hunt said, “I want to talk to someone who knows what has been going on in this house.” People froze. Blankness dropped into every single face. He’d seen it a million times. “People are dead. A girl is missing. Can anyone tell me what has been going on in this house?”

Hunt’s eyes found those of the angry woman with a child on each hip. He focused on her because she was a mother, and because she lived right next door. “Anything might help.” The woman stared, face cold and distant. Hunt panned the crowd, saw the anger and distrust. “A girl is missing!”

But he was a cop on the wrong street. He saw a paint can at the corner of the porch, label gone white, lid rusted shut. With a violence that surprised him, Hunt kicked the can. It arced into the yard, struck dirt, and exploded in a belch of gray. Hunt stared at the splatter, and when he looked up, he saw the Chief standing at the curb. He was fresh at the scene; his car still idled. He stood at the open door, arms crossed, frowning, his gaze intent on Hunt. Their eyes locked for a long second, then the Chief shook his head. Slowly. Resignedly.

Hunt counted two heartbeats, then turned for the open door.

The smell of death rolled over him.

Burton Jarvis left the shed at twenty minutes past six. He’d been up all night, strung out on tequila and speed, and now a fuse burned behind his eyes, something hot and bright. Something like fear. He was angry and unsatisfied, full of sharp regret that had nothing to do with right and wrong. His mind spun on ideas of consequence and risk, the knowledge of things he probably shouldn’t have done. Things that could get him caught.

But still…

He swayed in the damp gray space beneath the trees, felt the slash of grin spread on his face.

But still…

The smile wilted as he manipulated the big lock, died when the sweat sprang out on his skin. He staggered down the path from the shed to the house. His eyeballs itched, and it felt like somebody had poured wax into his sinuses.

Jar was not a nice man. He knew this about himself, but did not care. In fact, he took a perverse pride in watching young mothers drag their children into traffic just to avoid passing him on the sidewalk. After nine arrests and thirteen years behind bars, caring for his own needs had become his religion. He was sixty-eight, with bristled hair, two loose teeth, and eyes like raw oysters. Three packs a day kept him lean; the drugs and booze kept him out of prison. They dulled the edge, took the sting out of the places his mind liked to travel. With enough dope, he could get through the day.

Usually.

Jar kept a ramshackle house on twelve acres at the edge of town. The two-lane slithered past on its way to the landfill. In the front yard he had trees and dirt, a nineteen-year-old Pontiac, and a truck that spewed black smoke. In back, he had barrels of empty bottles and a ditch filled with trash.

And he had the shed. It sat on the back of the property, in a patch of woods so deep and dense he could have grown it just to serve this one purpose: to hide his shed. It was not on any tax map or plat. There was no permit. There was the shed, two miles of woods, and then there was the river.

Jar had seen the kid before, of course: a flash in the window, a blip of color in the deep brush. He had no idea what the little shit wanted, but had almost caught him once. He’d seen the boy at a rear window, then slipped out the front door and come up quiet and slick. He got a handful of hair but the kid tore free before he could snag a meaty part. Jar had chased him for a quarter mile before his lungs revolted. He remembered the moment, though: on his knees in the dirt, yelling with what breath he could find: Come back here again and I’ll kill you. I will fucking kill you.

But the kid had come back, twice that Jar knew about. He never expected to see him like this. Not in broad daylight.

The car was what caught his eye first. It was parked along the side of the road, its leftmost tires all but in the ditch. Jar saw a slice of dull chrome through the trees and stepped out onto his porch. He was in underwear, stretched around the legs and old, but he didn’t care. This was a barren street, the nearest neighbor more than a quarter mile away. Cars came by on the way to the dump, kids dragged loud cars, but that was about it. This was his patch of heaven, and he did whatever the hell he wanted to do. Besides, it was early. The sun hadn’t even cleared the trees.

What the hell was a car doing parked in front of his house?

Most people knew better.

He reached inside and caught the bat where it leaned against the doorjamb. It had dents and scars from a time he beat the television to death over a fumble in a playoff game. Jar staggered when he hit the bottom step, his lower back full of dull pain and the odd sharp needle. Trees leaned into him as he walked. A branch took a swipe and peeled some skin off his cheek.

Fucking tree.

He hit it with the bat, almost fell down.

The car was an old wagon: yellow paint, wood-grain panels. It had bald tires and weather stripping sprung from two of the windows. It looked empty. Jar stopped at the end of his dirt drive and put bleary eyes up the road and down. Nobody coming. Nothing on the road but the wagon. The blacktop was warm and smooth, the bat busted up and full of splinters. It scraped against his leg and drove slivers of wood under the skin. He stopped and saw pinpricks of blood that looked as bright as candy on the white, hairless meat of his calf.

Fucking bat.

The car windows were down, the boy curled up on the front seat. He had on filthy jeans and ragged sneakers, feathers or something around his neck. That was weird. His chest and shoulders were bare and streaked with what looked like soot. His face was the same as Jar had seen at the window, smudged and thin and up to no good. He lay on his side, asleep, and Jar could already feel his fingers around the boy’s bony neck.

This was the kid. The sneak that had Jar looking over his shoulder every other night. Jar flicked his gaze up and down the road, looked back into the car. He saw binoculars on the floor, a half-empty bottle of water and a goddamn camera. What the hell was the camera for? The kid had a knife in his hand, a pocketknife, folded open.

Jar would have laughed, but he was too busy doing the math.

Nobody in sight. Thirty seconds to get the kid out of the car, another minute to get him behind the house.

It was doable.

But he was drunk and sloppy, worn-out; and people like Jar did not do well in prison. Plus, there was the car to worry about. He’d have to ditch it fast and untraceable. If the kid put up a fight, it would get ugly. Jar had a temper-he didn’t deny that. There was the risk of somebody on the road: a random driver. The way the road bent, cars could pop up plenty quick. If somebody saw him dragging some boy out of a car, they’d call the cops for sure. And the cops were already riled up about the missing girl.

And luck only went so far.