John Hart - The Last Child

“What for?” Steve asked, and Johnny showed his most innocent eyes.

“Just ’cause.”

Steve worked the van through town. He passed storefronts and columned mansions, the parklike town square with its canopy of twisted oaks and the statue erected more than a century ago to honor a proud county’s Confederate dead. Johnny saw a brush of mistletoe in a tree, and thought of a girl he’d once dared to kiss, whose face now he could barely recall.

A different life.

Once past the square and the sun-dashed campus of the local college, Steve turned onto the four-lane that led to the mall. It was Ken’s mall. He owned it. “Where are we going?” Johnny asked.

“I have to stop by work. It won’t take long.”

Johnny sank into his seat. Steve sensed it. “Mr. Holloway won’t be there,” Steve said. “He never is.”

“I’m not scared of Ken.”

“I can take you to my place first.”

“I said I’m not scared.”

A half laugh. “Whatever.”

Johnny forced himself to sit up. “Why does he care so much about my mother?”

“Mr. Holloway?”

“He treats her like crap.”

“She’s the prettiest woman in this part of the state, or hadn’t you noticed?”

“It’s more than that.”

Steve shrugged. “Mr. Holloway doesn’t like to lose.”

“Lose what?”

“Anything.” Johnny’s confusion showed, and Steve saw it. He narrowed his eyes and pushed smoke through his lips. “You don’t know, do you?” He shook his head. “Christ, almighty.”

“What?”

“Your mom used to go out with Ken Holloway.”

“I don’t believe it.”

“Well, you’d better.” Steve took another drag, drawing the moment out. “She was eighteen, maybe nineteen. Just a girl, really.” He shook his head, pursed his lips. “Hotter than a three-dollar pistol, your momma. Could have gone to Hollywood, maybe. New York, for sure. Never did, of course, but could have.”

“I still don’t believe it.”

“He was older, but even then he was the richest man around. Not like he is now, mind you, but rich enough. It’d be hard for a pretty girl to resist the kind of attention he could apply if he set his mind to it, and your mother was no different from most other girls. Flowers. Gifts. Fancy dinners. Anything he could think of to make her feel important.”

“She’s not like that.” Johnny was angry.

“Not now. But young people like to feel bigger than the place they come from. It lasted for a few months, I guess. But then your dad came back to town.”

“Back from where?”

“The service. Four years. He’s what, six years older than she is? Seven? Anyway, she was just a kid when he left, but that changed.” Steve laughed and blew out a low whistle. “Boy, did that change.” Johnny stared out the window, and Steve continued. “Your old man fell for her like a ton of steel.”

“Her, too? For him I mean?”

“Your mom was like a butterfly, Johnny. Pretty and light and delicate. Your old man loved that about her, cherished it. He was as gentle and patient as you’d need to be for a butterfly to land in your hand.”

“And Holloway?”

Steve stubbed out the cigarette, spit out the window. “Holloway just wanted to put her in a jar.”

“And she figured that out about him?”

“You should have seen him when she said she was leaving him for your father.”

“Angry?”

“Angry. Jealous. He pursued her hard, tried to change her mind, but three months later your folks were married. You came a year later. It was as sharp a rejection as I ever saw, and I don’t know that Holloway ever got over it.”

“But dad did work for Holloway. All those houses he built. Holloway was over all the time.”

“Your daddy sees good in all people. It’s part of what makes him so fine. But Holloway was just waiting to bury him.”

“Dad didn’t know?”

“I told him as much, but your daddy always thought he could handle him. He’s prideful like that.”

“Confident,” Johnny said.

“Arrogant.”

Blacktop slid under the truck. The fan belt made a sudden, screaming noise. “You work for Holloway.”

“Not all of us have a choice, Johnny. That’s a life lesson for you. Free of charge.”

Steve stopped the van at a light. In the distance, Holloway’s mall rose like a battleship. Johnny watched Steve’s face, and when he spoke, it was of his mother. “Did you want to date her?”

Steve’s eyes were as flat as a snake’s. “Hell, son.” The light turned green. “Everybody did.”

The parking lot was slammed, which reminded Johnny that it was Saturday. Steve parked near the employee entrance at the back. When he opened the door, his mirror splashed sun into Johnny’s eyes. “Come on,” he said.

“Can I wait in the van?”

“Too dangerous back here. Homeless. Drug abusers. God knows what else.” Johnny watched as Steve touched the objects on his belt: Mace, radio, cuffs. “Come on. I’ll show you something cool.”

Inside, a key card granted access to a narrow door, metal stairs, and a third-story hallway that led to an office marked SECURITY. Steve swiped his card and leaned a shoulder against the office door. “Kids never get to see this.”

The security office was large and complex, with a bank of video monitors that covered an entire wall. Two guards sat in black swivel chairs, hands on keyboards and joysticks, changing images on the screens, zooming in and out, observing. They turned as Johnny stepped in, then did a double take.

One of them was twenty-something and fat, with hair mowed short and a razor-burned face. His smile was at once awe filled and dismissive. “This the kid?”

Steve put a hand on Johnny’s back, propelled him farther into the room “My nephew. Sort of.”

The fat guard offered a meaty hand, and Johnny studied it warily before shaking it. “Good job, kid. Wish I could have been there.”

Johnny looked at his uncle, who offered two words. “Tiffany Shore.”

The guard made a shooting motion. “Pow.”

“I don’t want to talk about it,” Johnny said.

But the guard was eager. “You see this?” He whipped a newspaper from the counter. “Front page. Check it out.”

The picture was of Johnny, taken through the window as he sat in the front seat of his mother’s car. His hands still gripped the wheel. His mouth hung open, face shocked and empty. Blood sheeted everything, dark where it had dried, bright where it wept red on Johnny’s chest. Feathers and rattles shone black on his skin, the skull as yellow-wet as a stone soaked in honey. Tiffany angled across the seat beside him, sun so fierce on her face that it shattered in her eyes. Men with clean clothes and long arms reached through the door to pull her out, but she was fighting, mouth tight, fingers desperate on Johnny’s arm.

The caption ran below the photograph: “Stolen Child Found, Pedophile Killed.”

Johnny’s voice came in a choked whisper. “Where did they get this picture?”

“The security guard at the hospital took it with his cell phone. They’re using the same picture on CNN.” The fat guard shook his head. “Probably paid him a fortune.”

Steve stepped in front of Johnny and pushed the paper away. “He doesn’t need to see that.”

The guard shifted as he took in Johnny’s face, saw how shadows multiplied in the hollow places. “I didn’t mean nothing.”

“Is the boss in?” Steve interrupted.

The guard hooked a thumb at an office door but kept his eyes on Johnny. Johnny followed Steve’s gaze and saw a window and white blinds sheathed in dust. An eye peered out and the blinds snapped shut. “Shit,” Steve muttered. “Has he been looking for me?”