John Hart - The Last Child

Hunt bristled and the Chief tried to settle everyone down. “Jarvis is dead. Tiffany is safe. That’s what matters.”

The sheriff barked a laugh. “Thanks to a twelve-year-old girl and a thirteen-year-old punk.”

“I’ll handle my own people,” the Chief said, and stared the sheriff down. “Is that clear?”

The sheriff returned to his post on the wall and nailed Hunt with a finger. “Well, you tell supercop to keep his eye on the ball. ’Cause I think he’s losing it. I think he’s trying to make himself look better by dragging other cops through the mud. My people. Your people. Us, for all I can tell.”

The Chief held up a hand and spoke to Hunt, a red flush climbing his neck as he did. “Are we clear on this issue of cop pedophiles? I don’t want to hear one damn word about this.”

“I think your stance is painfully clear.”

“Good. Because you should be looking into the circumstances of David Wilson’s death, Levi Freemantle, Burton Jarvis’s known associates. Not figments. Not maybes. Known , as in factual. If someone else is involved with Jarvis, that’s the way to find him. I want every loose end nailed down. We will reconsider your request to examine personnel files if and when Johnny Merrimon decides to talk about what he saw.”

“If he saw it,” the sheriff said.

“If he saw it,” the Chief agreed. “What he saw. How it happened. All of the usual things we, as cops, like to hear before going off half-cocked. Is that clear, Detective?”

“Yes.”

“Then get the hell out.”

Hunt did not move. “There’s more, I think.”

“You think?” The sheriff’s scorn was pronounced.

“The Freemantle case.”

“Have you found him?” the Chief asked.

“Not yet.”

“Then what?”

“We have ID on the bodies: Freemantle’s girlfriend and a guy she was probably sleeping with. We’re pretty sure Freemantle did it. No forced entry. Looks extemporaneous. Crime of passion, maybe. We think he walked in on them.”

“Extemporaneous,” the sheriff said. “That’s a big word.”

“Freemantle walked off a work detail that morning. Probably went straight home and caught them in the act. His probation officer says the girlfriend was pretty much a whore.”

“Fine. A good, clean case. I like it.”

Hunt pushed out a breath. “They have a daughter.”

“And?” The Chief’s entire body swelled.

“She’s missing.”

“No.” The Chief stood. “No, she’s not.”

“What?”

The Chief kept his voice calm and level, but a fierceness underlay it. “No one has filed a missing persons report. No one has called us for help.”

“That doesn’t mean it’s not true.”

“She could be with relatives, a grandmother, an aunt. Levi Freemantle probably has the kid. He’s the father, isn’t he? He hasn’t lost custody rights yet.”

Hunt stood, angry. “You’re just going to ignore this?”

“Ignore what?” The Chief turned his palms flat. “There is nothing to ignore. There’s no case here.”

“I get it,” Hunt said.

“You do?” The fierceness moved to implicit threat.

“No one wants another missing kid, so you bury it. You stick your head in the sand and pretend there’s no problem.”

“If you utter one word about another missing child…”

“I’ve had enough of your threats.”

The Chief straightened. “Don’t you have enough on your plate?”

“I want you to think hard about this,” Hunt said.

“And if I don’t?”

Hunt looked at the sheriff, the Chief. “I think that would be bad for all of us.”

Johnny went home to Uncle Steve’s two-bedroom apartment. It was a dump, even from the outside. Steve opened the door and looked embarrassed. “This okay?” he asked.

Johnny smelled beer and dirty clothes. “Sure.”

Steve showed Johnny his room and closed the door when Johnny asked him to. The room held a single bed with a table and lamp. A closet. A dresser. Nothing else. Johnny dropped his bag and opened it. He put the photograph of his parents on the table, then opened his shirt and checked the bandages. Red spots had soaked through in a diagonal line eight inches long. It was the worst of the cuts, but the blood was dry and Johnny guessed it would be okay. He buttoned up.

At sunset, Steve called out for pizza and they ate in front of a game show that he described as educational in nature. Afterward, Steve put his hands on his knees, looked awkward. “I have a lady friend…” His fingers shifted on the weave of his fine polyblend pants.

“I’ll stay in my room. Or you can go out if you want. It won’t bother me.”

“Go out?”

“Sure.”

“What about DSS?”

“If they come, I won’t answer the door. We can say we were out for dinner.”

Steve looked at the phone, the door. Johnny made it easy for him. “I’ve been alone plenty of times. You don’t have to worry.”

Relief softened Steve’s hard-edged mouth. “I’d just be gone for a few hours.”

“I’m thirteen.”

Steve rose and pointed. The nail on his finger was brown and broken. “Stay out of my stuff,” he said.

“Of course.”

“And don’t let anybody inside.”

Johnny nodded solemnly and saw that Steve still needed help. “I’ll probably just read. Homework, you know.”

“Homework. Good idea.”

Steve left and Johnny watched him all the way to the curb. Then he went through Steve’s stuff. Methodically. Carefully. He felt no guilt, no remorse. If Steve was going to get stoned or drunk, Johnny wanted to know. Same thing with guns and knives and baseball bats.

Johnny wanted to know where they were.

If the gun was loaded.

He found vodka in the freezer, a bag of pot in a casserole dish. The computer was password protected, the filing cabinet locked. He discovered a hunting knife on the floor of the bedroom closet and a sex manual on the shelf. An interior door led from the kitchen to the garage, where he found a pickup truck with worn tires and gouges in the dirty white paint. Johnny stood under the bright light and ran his hands along the hood, the mud-caked fenders. The truck was old, a beater, but it had air in the tires and the needle lifted off the peg when Johnny turned the key to check the gas. He stood in the garage smell and thought hard about things he should probably not do; but two minutes later he sat at the kitchen table, truck key in front of him, phone book open.

There was one listing for Levi Freemantle.

Johnny knew the street.

He picked up the key but jumped when the phone rang. It was his mother, and she was distraught. “Are you being a good boy?”

Johnny picked up the key, tilted it in the light. “Yes.”

“This is only temporary, honey. You need to believe that.”

Johnny heard a noise through the phone, a crash. “I believe it.”

“I love you, baby.”

“I love you, too.” Another sound.

“I have to go,” she said.

“Are you okay?”

“Be a good boy.” She hung up.

Johnny stared at the phone, then put it down. The key was warm in his hand.

No one had to know .

Katherine put the phone on the floor, next to her leg. Against her back, the front door was hard and cold. She pushed against it, even as a fist slammed into it from the outside. “Go away, Ken!”

Above her, the deadbolt held fast. Another blow, this one low. A kick. “You are my girlfriend. This is my house.”

“I changed the locks!”

“Open this damn door!”

“I’ll call the cops. I swear I will.”

The door shuddered from successive blows; the knob twisted but held. “I just want to talk!”