John Hart - The Last Child

“No more so than any other cop would.”

“This morning, you were yelling at a crowd of bystanders. You kicked a paint can all over your own crime scene.” The Chief looked away, then shook his head. “It’s been a long year. I think you need a break.”

“Are you firing me?”

“I’m asking you to take a few weeks off. A month at most.”

“No.”

“Just like that?”

“Just like that.”

The sympathy vanished. The anger surged back. “Then let me tell you what you are going to do. First of all, you’re going to take any heat that comes from this entire, screwed-up business. If the press wants a whipping boy, I intend to give them you, and I expect you to take it. Same thing with city government. Same thing with Tiffany Shore’s parents.”

“Why would I agree to that?”

“Because I’ve been carrying you for a year.”

“Bullshit.”

“Second.” He raised his voice, slapped two fingers into an open palm. “I want you to back off Ken Holloway. The man has more money than God, more friends in high places than either of us could dream up, and I don’t need that kind of headache. Other than sleeping with a woman that apparently holds some interest for you, he’s never done an evil thing in his life, far as I can tell. No arrests. No charges of any kind. So if he wants to put his finger on your chest, you take it like a man. And if he wants to slum it with Katherine Merrimon”-the Chief put one finger squarely on Hunt’s chest, shoved hard-“you let him.”

Hunt watched the Chief storm off. He was a little man, with a little man’s priorities, and Hunt had larger concerns; so he buried the conversation, flushed it. Forgot it.

Ah, crap. Who was he kidding?

Threading his way through the winding corridors, he eventually reached the pediatric hall where they’d placed Johnny. Hunt was not allowed to see the boy, but he hoped to find the doctor and a change of heart. What he found instead was an austere woman who sat, knees clenched together, on a bench down the hall from Johnny’s room. She had gray hair, pulled back, and a severely cut suit. Hunt recognized her.

Social Services.

Shit.

The woman caught his eye and began to rise, but he turned away before she could say anything. He made it to the lobby, but stopped when he heard Katherine’s voice. “Detective Hunt?”

Standing beside the elevator bank, she looked like hell. Hunt crossed to her side, and they found themselves strangely alone in the crowded room. “Katherine,” Hunt said. “How’s Johnny?”

She rubbed one arm, then lifted hair from her eyes and Hunt saw that she was on the verge of a breakdown. “Not good. He was cut seven times, two of them pretty deep.” She traced a finger beneath each eye before the tears spilled out. “It took two hundred and six stitches to close the wounds. He’ll be scarred for life.”

Hunt looked beyond her. “Is he awake?”

“Not now. He was, briefly.”

“Did he say anything at all?”

“He asked about Alyssa. He wanted to know if we found her.” Hunt looked away, but she put a hand on his arm. “Is it the same man?”

She was asking if Burton Jarvis was the man who took her daughter. “It’s too early to say.”

“Is it?” She squeezed, and Hunt saw the hope and dread that filled her up.

“I don’t know,” he said. “We’re looking into it. We’re checking. When I know something, you’ll know it, too. I promise.”

She bobbed her head. “I should get back… in case he wakes up.”

She made to leave and Hunt stopped her. He thought hard before he spoke. “Katherine.”

“Yes?”

“Social Services is going to want to speak with you.”

“DSS? I don’t understand.”

“Johnny was gone all night. In your car. He was almost killed by a known pedophile.” Hunt paused. “I don’t think they’ll let Johnny stay with you.”

“I don’t understand.” Then, quickly, “I won’t allow it.”

“He came in wearing feathers. He had rattlesnake rattles and a skull on a string around his neck. I don’t know a judge that would let him stay with you. You’ve seen the press outside? That’s national media. CNN. FOX. They’re calling him the Little Chief, the Wild Indian. It’s a story now, and that makes it political. DSS will take action because they have no choice.”

The defiance melted. “What can I do?”

“I don’t know.”

“Please.” Her fingers tightened on his arm. “Please.”

Hunt looked up and down the room. In seventeen years, he’d never crossed the line, but here it was, as clear as any line he’d ever seen. In full control of himself, Hunt stepped over it. Why? Because some things mattered more.

“They’ll do a full evaluation,” he said. “That starts with a surprise inspection of your home.”

“I don’t-”

“You need to go home now. You need to clean up.” Her hand moved up, touched a strand of limp hair. Hunt paused, but some things had to hurt. “You need to lose the drugs.”

“I don’t-”

Hunt stopped her. “Please don’t lie to me, Katherine. Right now, I’m your friend, not a cop. I’m one friend trying to help another.”

She held his gaze for as long as she could, then looked down.

“Katherine, look at me.” She tilted her face, and it was naked in the harsh light. “Trust me.”

She blinked away dewdrop tears, and her words came with effort. “I need a ride.”

Hunt peered through the glass doors, took in the crowd. The reporters. The cameras. He found Katherine’s hand with his own. “This way.” Hunt led her down successive corridors, onto an elevator, then outside through a double door at the back marked FOR DELIVERIES ONLY . “Car’s this way.”

“What about my car?”

“Impounded. Evidence.”

Twenty feet into the hot sun, she took back her hand. “I can manage.” But when they got to the car, Hunt saw that she clearly could not. A flush burned her cheeks and her fingers twisted white. She pressed against the door and kept her head down.

At her house, Hunt pulled the car as close to her door as he could. “Do you have money for a cab? To get back to the hospital?” She nodded. “My number?”

She swept hair from her face, met his gaze, and some small pride glinted in her eyes. “I have several of your cards.” She opened her door and heat spilled in. He watched her legs swing away, her hand on the top of the door. When she leaned in, her voice was clipped. “I love my son, detective.”

“I know.”

“I’m a good mother.”

She was trying to convince herself, but the wide pits at the center of her eyes made the statement a lie. Johnny was in the hospital, and she was still stoned. “I know you are,” Hunt said; but that’s not what he believed.

I know you were.

I hope you will be again.

Hunt put the car in reverse.

She stood in the dirt and watched him go.

Thirty minutes later, Hunt was at the shed, working the scene with Yoakum and several techs. His back was to the house. “Heads up,” Yoakum told him.

“What?”

“Chief.”

Hunt looked down the trail and saw the Chief push through the last bit of low vegetation. Two assistants followed him. A uniform held branches out of his way. “I just did this,” Hunt said.

“Good things come in fat packages.”

Hunt crossed his arms over his chest. If the Chief decided to check up, that was fine, but Hunt wasn’t going to look happy about it. The Chief stopped fifteen feet away to survey the scene, hands on hips, chin at an angle.

“Did he see this in a movie?” Yoakum whispered.

“Button it, John.”