John Hart - The Last Child

“Good trip?”

“Family at the coast.” He said it in such a manner that it could mean almost anything. Hunt nodded and did not push. Parole officers were like cops; they rarely did personal.

“I need to talk about Levi Freemantle.”

Tremont’s face offered up the first real smile Hunt had seen. “Levi? How’s my boy?”

“Your boy?”

“He’s a good kid.”

“He’s forty-three.”

“Trust me, he’s a child.”

“We think your child killed two people. Maybe three.”

Tremont’s head moved like the neck joint was oiled. “I suspect that you’ve made a mistake.”

“You sound certain.”

“Levi Freemantle looks like the biggest badass on the street, like he’d kill you for a nickel bag, which is not always a bad thing when you have nothing. But I’ll tell you straight, Detective. He wouldn’t kill anybody. No way. You’ve made a mistake.”

“You have his address?” Hunt asked.

Tremont nodded and rattled it off from memory. “He’s been there about three years.”

“We found two bodies at that address,” Hunt said. “A white female, early to mid-thirties. Black male, approximately forty-five years of age. We found them yesterday. They’ve been dead for most of a week.” Hunt gave it a moment to sink in. “Do you know a Clinton Rhodes?”

“Is he the dead guy?”

Hunt nodded.

“Not my case,” Tremont said. “But he’s been in and out of here for a long time. Bad dude. Violent. Now him I could see doing a murder. Not Levi.”

“We’re fairly confident.”

Tremont shifted in his chair. “Levi Freemantle is pulling three months on a probation violation. He won’t be out for another nine weeks.”

“He escaped a work detail eight days ago.”

“I don’t believe it.”

“He walked off and hasn’t been seen since, except by a burned-out drunk who barely knows his own name, and by a young boy who puts him near the scene of another murder. That was two days ago. So you see, I’ve got three bodies, each with some connection to your kid.”

Tremont pulled Freemantle’s file and opened it. “Levi has never been convicted for a violent offense. Hell, he’s never been accused of one. Trespass, shoplifting.” He snapped the file closed. “Look,” he said. “Levi is not the sharpest tool in the toolbox. Most of these crimes, hell-if somebody said, Levi, go in there and get me a bottle of wine, he’d just walk into the store and get it. He has no sense of consequence.”

“Neither do most killers.”

“It’s not like that. Levi…” He shook his head. “He’s childlike.”

“I have a dead white female. Early to mid-thirties. Any thoughts on that?”

“He’s been involved with a Ronda Jeffries. She’s white, likes to party. Been known to turn a trick or two on the side. For fun, she likes big, bad men. Specifically, she likes big, bad black men. She got involved with Levi because that’s what he looks like, the toughest mother on the street. She keeps him around because he’s easy to handle and he does what she says. He makes a few dollars and gives them to her. He takes care of the house. Makes her look legit. When she needs a break, or another man, she generally finds some way to get Levi locked up for a spell. It’s like I said, he’ll do whatever she tells him to do. The first time he got arrested, it was for shoplifting. She took a bottle of perfume off a display counter and told him to carry it; then she walked him past the security guard and out the front door.”

“Are they married?”

“No, but Levi thinks they are.”

“Why?”

A smile. “Because they’ve slept together, and because…” The words trailed off. “Oh, shit.”

“What?”

“Who’s taking care of their kid?”

Hunt felt a chill. “Their kid?”

“A little girl. Two years old.”

Hunt reached for his phone.

“Got a smile that would melt your heart.”

The hospital forced Katherine to leave Johnny’s room at nine that night. In one sense, it was hard for her, but in another, it was a blessing. Ken Holloway had called the room four times, refusing to hang up until she agreed to meet with him. He’d been insistent and she’d been strong, refusing each time, explaining that now, finally, she had to put her son first. Eventually, she’d been forced to hang up on him. Twice. After that, she twitched in fear every time the door opened or a noise rose too quickly in the hall.

And then there was the dryness. She tried to be strong, but felt it in every part of her body.

The need.

She lingered by the bed for a final moment. Her son was asleep, his face, as always, like that of his sister. Same mouth. Same lines. She kissed him on the head, then met her cab at the rear entrance of the hospital.

The ride home was white-knuckled. They passed three stores advertising beer and wine, two different bars. She tightened her jaw and dug nails into her palms. When the downtown lights fell away, she allowed herself to breathe. There was dark road, the steady hum of tires on black pavement. She was okay. She repeated it.

I am okay.

The cab started down the final hill, and she saw the house from a half mile out. Light spilled from every window, stained the yard in bumblebee patterns of black and yellow.

She’d left the place dark.

Climbing from the cab, she started for the door, then hesitated. Her hand found the cell phone in her purse. She got as far as the porch, then changed her mind and stepped back. Everything was so still: the yard, the woods, the street.

That’s when she saw the car. It was parked two hundred feet down the road, edged far onto the shoulder. It was too dark to make out the color. Black, maybe. A big sedan that she did not recognize. She stared hard, took a step toward it, and realized that she could hear its engine running.

She took two more steps and the car lights snapped on. Spitting dirt and gravel, the car made a tight, squealing turn and flew up the road, taillights growing small, then dropping away as the road fell.

Katherine tried to slow her breath. It was just a car. Just a neighbor. She turned back to the house and saw that the front door stood open a crack, a long slice of yellow that spread wide when she pushed.

Inside, music played.

“ Have yourself a merry little Christmas …”

It was late May.

She turned off the music and moved down the hall. The house felt empty, but the music freaked her out. It was the one song, set to play again and again. She checked the bedrooms first, found nothing out of place. The bathroom was fine, too.

She found the pills in the kitchen.

The orange bottle sat in the exact center of the chipped Formica table. It was bright and shiny, its label a slash of perfect white. Katherine stared at it, felt her tongue thicken. The pills clicked when she picked the bottle up to read the label. It had her name on it, dated today.

Seventy-five pills.

Oxycontin.

In a rage, she tore open the door and flung the bottle into the yard. The lock twisted in her fingers as she drove it home. She checked every window, every door, then sat on the sofa by the front window. She kept her back straight, and felt the bottle out there, a presence in the dark. She ground her teeth and cursed Ken Holloway’s name.

It wasn’t going to be that easy.

Johnny left the hospital at noon the next day. They rolled him to the curb and he stood carefully. “You okay?” the nurse asked.

“I think so.”

“Give yourself a minute.”

Thirty feet away, cameras clicked and whirred. Reporters shouted questions, but the cops held them at a distance. Johnny took it in, one hand on the roof of Uncle Steve’s van. He saw news trucks from the Charlotte stations, the ones in Raleigh. “I’m ready,” he said, and the nurse helped him into the van.