John Hart - The Last Child

“Weakness,” she repeated, fingers white, snake becoming frantic as she crushed it. It struck her hand, her face. It hit the neck and hung on, pumping its venom even as it writhed. Alyssa ignored it, moved her other hand from behind her back. In it, she held a gun, black and gleaming in the hard, hot light.

“Power,” she said.

And ripped the snake from her neck.

Johnny woke with a start. The drugs had worn off, but the dream kept its grip: his vanished sister, and how she’d smiled as Johnny laid fingers on the warm, bright metal in her hand. He touched the bandages on his chest, then he saw his mother. She sat alone in a chair by the wall. Mascara stained the skin beneath her eyes. One knee twitched.

“Mom.”

Her head came around and her voice caught. “Johnny.” She found her feet in an instant, crossed the room and stood over him. Her hand smoothed his hair, then she bent and wrapped her arms around him. “My baby.”

Detective Hunt came two hours after breakfast. He appeared in the door, gave Johnny a tight smile, then crooked a finger at Katherine and moved back into the hall.

Johnny watched them through the glass. Whatever Hunt said, his mother didn’t like it. They argued hotly. She shook her head, stared twice through the window, then dipped her chin. Hunt’s hand touched her shoulder once, but she threw it off.

When the door finally opened, Hunt entered first, Johnny’s mother right behind him. She offered an unconvincing smile, then perched on the edge of a slick, vinyl-covered chair in the corner. She looked as if she might throw up.

“Hey, Johnny.” Hunt pulled a chair closer to the bed. “How are you feeling?”

Johnny looked from his mother to the glint of metal under Hunt’s arm, the black and shining steel. “Is Tiffany okay?”

Hunt twitched his jacket closed. “I think she will be.”

Johnny closed his eyes and saw her sitting in the dead man’s blood; he felt the dry, hot skin of her arm as he’d tried to get her in the car. “She didn’t know who I was. We’ve been in school together for seven years.” He shook his head. “Halfway to the hospital, she finally recognized me. She wouldn’t let go of me. Crying. Screaming.”

“I’ll find out how she is. First thing.” Hunt paused and his voice went grown-up serious. “It was a brave thing you did.”

Johnny blinked. “I didn’t save anybody.”

“Is that right?”

“That’s what they’re saying, isn’t it?”

“Some people are saying that. Yes.”

“He was going to kill me. Tiffany is the hero. They shouldn’t be telling stories otherwise.”

“TV people, Johnny. Don’t take it seriously.”

Johnny stared at the white wall and one hand touched the bandages on his chest. “He was going to kill me.”

Katherine made a noise that sounded like a sob, and Hunt turned in his seat. “There is really no need for you to be here.”

She rose from the edge of her seat. “You can’t make me go.”

“No one is suggesting-”

“I am not leaving.” Her voice climbed, hands shaking.

Hunt turned back to Johnny, and his smile seemed real, though troubled. “Are you strong enough to answer some questions?” Johnny nodded. “We’re going to start at the beginning. I want you to picture the man you saw on the bridge, the one driving the car that hit the motorcycle. Got it?”

“Yes.”

“Now, picture the man that assaulted you after you ran.”

“He didn’t assault me. He just picked me up, kind of held me.”

“Held you?”

“Like he was waiting for something.”

“Is there any chance that it could have been the same man. The man on the bridge. The one that picked you up.”

“They were different men.”

“You barely saw the man on the bridge. You said he was a silhouette.”

“Different shape, different size. They were a mile apart, maybe even two.”

Hunt explained about the bend in the river. “It’s possible that it was the same man.”

“I know how the river runs. The middle of that bend is a swamp. If you tried to cut across it, you’d sink to your waist. The trail follows the river for a reason. They’re different men, trust me. The one on the bridge didn’t even look big enough to carry that box.”

“What box?”

“Like a trunk,” Johnny said. “Wrapped in plastic. He had it on a shoulder and it looked real heavy.”

“Describe it.”

“Black plastic. Silver tape. Long. Thick. Like a trunk. He held me with one arm, held the trunk with the other. Just stood there, like I said, and then he spoke to me.”

“You didn’t tell me that before. What did he say?”

“God says.”

“What does that mean?”

“I don’t know.”

Hunt stood and walked to the window. For a long minute, he stared through the glass. “Does the name David Wilson mean anything to you?”

“No.”

“What about Levi Freemantle?”

“David Wilson is the man that got knocked off the bridge. Levi Freemantle is the man that picked me up.”

“You said that the names meant nothing to you.”

Johnny rolled his shoulders. “They don’t. But Freemantle is a Mustee name, so that has to be the big guy. That makes David Wilson the dead one.”

“Mustee?”

“Yeah.”

“What’s mustee?”

“Indian blood mixed with African.” Hunt looked vacant. “Lumbee, Sapona, Cherokee, Catawba. There were Indian slaves, too. Didn’t you know that?”

Hunt studied the kid, not sure if he should believe him. “How do you know that Freemantle is a mustee name?”

“Raven county’s first freed slave was a mustee named Isaac. When he was freed, he chose the name Freemantle as his last name. Mantle of freedom. That’s what the name means.”

“Before this case, I’d never heard of Freemantles in Raven County.”

Johnny shrugged. “They’ve been around. Why do you think Levi Freemantle is the same man from the bridge?”

“Let’s talk about Burton Jarvis.”

“No,” Johnny said.

“What?”

“Not unless you answer my question. That’s only fair.”

“This isn’t the playground, Johnny. It’s not about fair.”

“He’s very stubborn,” Katherine said.

“Very well,” Hunt said. “One question. One time.”

Johnny dipped his chin, and his eyes never left Hunt’s face. “Why do you think that Levi Freemantle is the same man from the bridge?”

“Freemantle left a print on David Wilson’s body. It makes us wonder if Freemantle was the one that drove him off the bridge. If you could tell us they were the same men, Freemantle and the one you saw on the bridge, it would clean things up.” Hunt did not mention the bodies found in Freemantle’s house, the drawing of the giant stick figure holding a girl with a yellow dress and a blood-red mouth.

Johnny sat up straighter, and something pulled beneath the bandages. “Was David Wilson still alive when Freemantle got to him?”

“Unknown.”

“But possible.”

Hunt pictured the bloody prints on the dead man’s eyelids. “Doubtful,” he said.

“Maybe he told Freemantle where she was.”

“I wouldn’t go there, Johnny.”

“What if he was talking about Alyssa. Maybe he told Freemantle where he found her.”

“No.”

“But, maybe-”

“It’s doubtful that he was talking about Alyssa at all, and it’s just as doubtful that he was still alive when Freemantle got to him.” Hunt studied the kid, watched him do the math. “Don’t even think about it,” he said.

“Think about what?”

He was so wide-eyed and innocent, any other cop would buy it. “Your days playing at cop are over, Johnny. No more maps. No more adventures. Do I make myself clear?”