John Hart - The Last Child

Johnny had to tell him something.

“You remember that book we read in English? The Lord of the Flies? About those boys on the deserted island and how they go feral with no adults around to tell them different. They make spears and blood paint. They run wild through the jungle, hunt pigs, beat drums. You remember?”

“Yeah. So?”

“One day they were normal, then one day the rules didn’t matter anymore. They made up their own rules, their own beliefs.” He paused. “Sometimes I feel like those boys.”

“Those kids tried to kill each other. They went insane.”

“Insane?”

“Yeah.”

Johnny shrugged. “I really like that book.”

“You’re an idiot.”

“Maybe.”

Jack picked at a thread on his jeans, looked around at the concrete and stairs. “I thought you hated your Uncle Steve.”

Johnny explained about DSS, Detective Hunt. “That’s why.”

“I wouldn’t do anything special for that cop,” Jack said.

“What do you mean?”

He waved a hand. “Stuff I hear from my dad. Cop stuff.”

“Like what?”

“Like he’s sweet on your mom. That they’ve been… you know.”

“Bullshit.”

“That’s what my dad says.”

“Well, your dad’s a liar.”

“He probably is.”

A silence fell. They were awkward together for the first time. “You want to spend the night?” Johnny asked. “It’s just Steve’s place, but, you know-”

“My dad won’t let me hang out with you.”

“Why not?”

“ Lord of the Flies, man. He thinks you’re dangerous.” Jack tipped his head against the wall. Johnny did the same. “Dangerous,” Jack said. “Dangerous is cool.”

“Not if we can’t hang out.”

They fell into another long silence. “I really loved your dad,” Jack said. “He made me feel like the arm didn’t matter.”

“It doesn’t.”

“I hate my family.”

“No, you don’t.”

Jack wrapped his arms around his knees and his fingers went white where he squeezed them. “You remember last year? When I broke my arm?”

The arm was weak; it broke easily. Johnny remembered at least three times that Jack had been in a cast. Last year, though, had been a bad one, with breaks in four places. Fixing it took more surgeries: screws and pins and other bits of metal. “I remember.”

“Gerald’s the one that did it.” The small hand danced at the end of its narrow wrist. Jack’s voice fell down a well. “That’s why my dad gave me the new bike.”

“Jack-”

“That’s why I never ride it.”

“Shit, man.”

“I hate my family.”

Hunt stood in the Chief’s office. Flags graced the corners of the room, and on one wall hung pictures of his boss with various state functionaries: the lieutenant governor, a former senator, a two-bit actor who looked vaguely familiar. Photos of his children were spaced along the credenza. The local paper sat on the desk. So did the papers from Wilmington, Charlotte, and Raleigh. Johnny’s picture was on the front page of each of them. Face paint and feathers, blood and bone.

A wild Indian .

The Chief filled his chair, tilted back, hands crossed on his stomach. Anger carved deep lines at the corners of his eyes. He was tired, with unwashed hair that glistened on his forehead. The county sheriff, a lean man in his sixties, with cracked skin on his knuckles and leathery bags beneath his eyes, stood against the wall. He’d been sheriff for almost thirty years and was as feared for his temper as he was respected for his abilities. He studied Hunt with dark, impenetrable eyes and looked no happier than the Chief.

Hunt refused to flinch.

“Do you have any idea,” the Chief began, “how many people work for this department? How many officers, how many trainees?”

“I am well aware.”

The Chief gestured at the sheriff. “And in the Sheriff’s Department? Any idea?”

“A lot, I’m sure.”

“And how do you think those people would feel if we let you root around in their personnel files? Their confidential personnel files?”

“I have reason to believe-”

“We’ve seen your reason.” The sheriff’s voice cut through the room. He shifted but kept his shoulder on the wall, his thumbs in his heavy, black belt. “And neither one of us can tell what that word says. Maybe it’s “cop,” but maybe it’s something else. Maybe this kid is mistaken.”

The Chief leaned forward. “Or full of it.”

“Or crazy as a shithouse rat.”

Hunt stared at the sheriff. “I respectfully disagree.”

“Are you some kind of expert now?” The Chief thumped a finger on the newspapers. “Just look at him.”

The photograph damned the boy to ready judgment: feathers, wild hair, Tiffany frozen in terror, and his eyes shocked to utter blankness.

“I understand how that looks, but this is a smart kid. If he thinks he saw a cop, there’s a reason for it.”

The sheriff interrupted. “The boy claims he made it up. You said so yourself. Now, that’s all I really need to hear.”

“He’s worried that DSS will take him away from the only family he has left. He thinks a cop was involved with Burton Jarvis.” Hunt could not contain his frustration. “He’s terrified. He’s protecting himself.”

“Do you have any other reason, beyond this kid, to think that one of ours, a cop for God’s sake, might be involved in this unholy mess?”

“Tiffany Shore’s handcuffs were police issue.”

“Found at any decent surplus store,” the sheriff said.

“It’s strong circumstantial evidence, especially in connection with Johnny’s observations.”

“We’re done discussing that boy’s observations ,” the Chief said.

“Is there anything that links Tiffany Shore’s cuffs to either department?” The sheriff’s features barely moved. “Serial numbers? Anything?”

“No.”

“Anything at the scene? In Jarvis’s past? On his property?”

“No. But at the very least, the kid has identified a dangerous predator who has so far avoided detection. The files are a logical place to start. If he’s right, then we take a bad guy off the street. If he’s wrong, no harm done.”

“No harm done? For God’s sake, Hunt.” The Chief splayed his meaty hands on the desk. “Giving you access to those files would piss off every employee I have and probably violate more employment laws than I care to count. Not to mention the image problem we’d have if word gets out.”

“And it would,” the sheriff said.

“The kid has already made me look like an ass on national television, and you-my lead detective, my right arm, or so I’ve been told-you have managed to drag this department into a lawsuit with one of the city’s most respected businessmen.”

“That lawsuit is crap and you know it.”

The Chief ticked off points on his fingers. “Police brutality. Harassment. Intentional infliction of emotional distress. False arrest. Is there anything else? I’m running out of fingers.”

“There may be a pedophile with a badge running loose in this county. That’s the issue, and it should concern both of you. Ignoring that possibility puts children at further risk. You ”-Hunt stressed the word, repeated it-“ you would be putting children at further risk.”

The Chief came out of his seat. “If you repeat anything like that outside of this office, I will have your ass and I will burn it.”

“Ignoring this won’t make it go away.”

“That’s enough.”

“If another child goes missing because of self-serving public relations concerns-”

“Why are we listening to this son of a bitch?” the sheriff demanded. “If we lose another kid, it’ll be because of his incompetence. That’s the bottom line here and everybody knows it. Just look at him, for Christ’s sake.”