John Hart - The Last Child

“Yeah. Fourth-grade field trip. They made us hold hands so nobody wandered off and fell into a hole.” He was embarrassed, Johnny knew, by the memory. Nobody had wanted to hold Jack’s bad hand. There had been pushing and shoving. Some girl had said it was gross.

Johnny traced his finger south, to the trail that ran beside the river. “This is where I ran into him, right about there. Over here is the bridge.”

“Got it.”

Johnny continued tracing the path along the river. His finger stopped near the edge of the swamp. There were two words there: Hush Arbor. “This is where he was going. This is where we’ll find him.”

“You’re talking over me, man.”

Johnny closed the book. “This goes back, okay. Back to slave times.”

“What?”

“Slave times. Concentrate. See, slaves came over with their own religions. African stuff. Tribal stuff. Animal gods and spirits in the water, fetishes, charms. Root work, they called it. Hoodoo. But that was good for the white folks, just fine, in fact, because nobody here wanted them learning about Jesus and God and stuff. They didn’t want a bunch of slaves thinking they were equal in the eyes of God. Do you see? If you’re equal, then nobody should own you. That was dangerous thinking if you owned slaves.”

“So, they didn’t want the slaves to learn.”

“But they did. African slaves, Indian slaves. They learned to read and they took to the Bible; but they had to do it in private, ’cause they understood the danger of it, too. They were smarter than the slave owners thought they were. They knew they’d be punished for their faith. Sold off. Killed, maybe. So they’d worship in the woods and in the swamps. Secret places. Hidden places. You see?”

“No.”

“Think of them as hiding places for church. They called these places “hush arbors,” and they’d go there to worship in secret, to hide their faith from the whites that didn’t want to share their religion.”

“Hush arbors? Like the place on the map.”

Johnny nodded. “They were too smart to build a church because they knew somebody would find it. But woods are just woods, a swamp is just mud and water and snakes and shit. So that’s where they’d go. They’d sing their songs to God, dance on the dirt, and testify to their new faith.”

“That’s in the book?”

Johnny looked away, hesitated. “Some of it. Not all of it.”

“Not all of what?”

“There was a slave named Isaac, who was a preacher of sorts. He taught those who couldn’t read. He spread the word, even though he knew the danger of it.” Johnny swatted a mosquito, rolled it off his neck and squeezed blood between thumb and fingertip. “They were discovered eventually, and three slaves were lynched right there in the hush arbor, strung up from the trees that made their church. They were going to hang Isaac, too, but his owner intervened. He stood the mob down with a gun in one hand and a Bible in the other. They say he called God down from the heavens and threatened to shoot the first man who took a step. Nobody had the courage to chance it. He saved that slave’s life.”

Jack was enthralled. “What happened next?”

“He took Isaac home and hid him for three weeks, waited for the mob to cool down, waited for some guilt to set in, I guess. Then he gave that slave his freedom, and he gave him the land where his people had worshipped.”

“And been lynched.”

“That, too.”

“And you want to find this guy there?”

“Isaac Freemantle lived there the rest of his life. Maybe Freemantles still do. The trail goes right to it. Probably how they got to town and back.”

Jack frowned. “How do you know all this? You say it’s not in the book.”

“My great-great-grandfather’s name was John Pendleton Merrimon. Same name as me.”

“Yeah. So?”

“He was the one with the gun and the Bible.” Johnny tossed a stick on the fire. “He’s the one that set Isaac free.”

“Get out.”

“Truth.”

“And you want to go out into the swamp, to find this guy’s great-grandson or whatever, a killer, so you can ask him about Alyssa?” Johnny nodded in absolute certainty, and Jack shook his head. “You think he owes you?”

“I don’t think he knows who I am.”

“You’re an idiot. I mean, you are off the fucking reservation.”

“Off the reservation.” Johnny’s voice was bitter. “That’s funny.”

“It’s not a joke. This is stupid, Johnny. It’s mental.”

“No take-backs. That’s what you said.”

Jack scrambled to his feet and sparks popped in the fire. “Jesus, Johnny. This guy just killed two people. He’ll kill us, too. Sure as shit.”

Johnny rose as well. “That’s why I took this.” He pulled Steve’s gun from the holster, and fire devils danced in the metal.

“You’re insane.”

“And you’re coming with me.”

Jack looked around, as if for help; but there was nothing there. Light pushed dark and the sky pressed down. Jack opened his hands and begged with his eyes. “It’s been a year, Johnny.”

“Don’t you say it!”

Jack swallowed, took a desperate look at the scrub beyond the fire; then he said it. “She’s fucking dead, man.”

Johnny swung with all he had. The blow struck the side of Jack’s face and he went down in the dirt. Johnny stood over him, his breath like glass in his throat, the gun a dead weight in his hand. For that instant, his oldest friend was not his friend, but his enemy; Johnny wondered why he’d ever thought that Jack could be more than that. Then he recognized the terror in his friend’s face.

The heat drained out of Johnny, and he became aware of the sky, suddenly dark and huge. He saw himself through Jack’s eyes, and knew, freaking knew , that he was the crazy one. But that changed nothing.

“I have to go.”

Johnny’s fist fell open. Jack pushed back in the dirt.

“Please, don’t make me go alone.”

Hunt drove Katherine Merrimon back to the small house at the edge of town. He tried once to make conversation, but she was unresponsive. Stopping in the drive, he peered through the glass and frowned. “When you saw the strange car on the street the other night, where was it parked?”

Katherine pointed and Hunt looked up the street, past the distant light. “It was just sitting there. Its engine was running. I’d never seen it before.”

“What kind of car?”

“I thought it was a police car.”

“Why a police car? What makes you say that?”

“It had that look. A big sedan. The shape of it. It looked like a cop car.”

“Lights on the roof?”

“No. Just the shape of it.” She gestured at the car in which they sat. “Like this.”

“A Crown Victoria?”

“It just looked like this. American. Big. I don’t know. It was dark. I don’t care about cars. I don’t know about them.”

“And it took off when?”

“When I started walking toward it.”

“Which direction did it go?”

She pointed, and Hunt frowned again. “I don’t think you should stay here, not with all that’s happened.”

“Where else would I stay?” She waited for an answer. “Your place?”

“I’m not like that, Katherine.”

“All men are like that.” She could not hide the bitterness.

She held his gaze and Hunt was struck by the intensity of it. So jaded, so weary. Damn Ken Holloway , Hunt thought. Damn him for making her like that .

“I was thinking of a hotel. Something anonymous.”

She must have heard the hurt in his voice. “I’m sorry,” she said. “That was unfair. You’ve been nothing but aboveboard.”