John Hart - The Last Child

“So you’ll do it?”

“Johnny might come home. I need to be here for that.”

“Katherine-”

“No.”

“Then I want a squad car on the street.”

“No to that, too.”

“It’s not safe here,” Hunt said. “Things are happening that we don’t understand.”

“A police car would scare Johnny. If he did run away, I want him to know that he can come home. How will he know that if the cops are parked in front of the house?” Katherine opened her door. “Thank you for the ride, Detective. I’ll be fine from here.”

Hunt stepped out of the car and put his hands on the roof. “I’d like to check the house.”

“I need to be alone.”

Hunt studied the street because her pain was killing him. He’d seen her courage before, and he’d seen that courage fail. It had been like watching a redwood fall or a river die. He looked at the dark house, then at her. “Please,” he said.

“If you insist.”

Hunt found the broken window three seconds later. “Back in the car,” he said, and drew his service weapon. “Get in the car and lock the doors.”

She bolted for the door.

“Katherine!”

“I changed the locks. Don’t you see? It’s Johnny.”

Hunt caught her on the steps and pulled her back. “Wait,” he said. “Just wait.” Then he called out. “Johnny.” He tried the door. It opened easily. “Johnny. It’s Detective Hunt and your mother.” Nothing. Hunt held up a hand. “Stay here.”

Inside, Hunt flicked on the lights. Glass shards glittered on the carpet. He checked the back rooms, turned on every light. When he came down the hall, he found Katherine in the living room. He holstered his weapon. “Nobody. It’s empty.”

She sat on the sofa and held herself still.

“Is anything missing?” She said nothing, and Hunt stepped closer. “Has anything been stolen?”

She looked up, eyes wet and vacant.

“I’m going to check the yard,” Hunt said. “I need you to look around and tell me what you see.”

“It won’t do any good. I haven’t seen anything for most of a year. I wouldn’t know if something was missing.”

Hunt understood the comment, but let it go. “Check Johnny’s room. Start there.”

“Alright.”

She moved to the hallway. Johnny’s light burned. She heard Hunt leave the house, then she stood in the entrance to Johnny’s room. She realized, looking in, that it was unfamiliar to her. How many times had she been in this room, she wondered. Three times? Five? And how many times sober? None, she thought. The year behind her was a blur of days. She ate. She slept. Ken Holloway came and went.

Her son’s room was strange to her.

Her son, she realized, was strange to her.

She checked the closet, but did not know what should be there. Same thing with the drawers and the shelves. There was no recollection of buying clothes, or of washing them. Johnny had been doing that, she realized. He cooked. He cleaned. She covered her mouth, overwhelmed.

Where was her son?

She found the suitcase under the bed. It was old and battered, vaguely familiar. She dragged it out and heaved it up onto the bed. She opened it and froze.

Alyssa’s face.

Johnny’s and her husband’s.

Photos covered the inside of the lid. It was a collage of sunshine and her children; life, like a promise. Her eyes burned, her throat closed, and she touched one of the photographs.

Alyssa .

She had one arm around her brother’s neck. They were grinning like imps.

Johnny .

In the suitcase, she found an eight-by-ten photograph of her husband. He wore a blue T-shirt and a belt of tools. He stood sideways to the camera, an angular, strong man with a wide smile and hair so black it gleamed. Dark glasses hid his eyes, but she knew what they would look like, blue and sharp and unflinching. For a moment, she was overwhelmed with regret for the blame she’d dumped on him, for the horrible thing she’d said. Then the anger spiked: It was his fault! She should never have been walking home alone.

But the anger was wasted. “Where are you, Spencer?”

There was no answer to that. He was gone.

Her fingers touched the other items in the suitcase, Alyssa’s things. Her stuffed animals, her diary.

How?

She’d burned this, all of it. Burned everything during three bad weeks of drug-fueled insanity. She lifted a stuffed lamb from the bottom of the case and pressed her face into it, trying to find some small scent that lingered.

“Katherine.”

Hunt’s voice was a distant thing. The toy came away wet. “Go away,” she said.

“Property’s clear.” He was in the hall. His steps put a vibration in the wood and the vibration found her knees.

“Don’t come in here.”

He stopped in the door.

“Don’t come in.” She felt a break, somewhere deep, a flow of memory so keen and strong that it took down every wall she’d built. Without the drugs, she was naked in the river.

“Katherine-”

“Leave me alone.” The lamb was soft in her hands. “I’m begging you.”

Hunt backed away, and she heard the front door close. She looked at the lamb: the shiny, black eyes, the fleece so white it could be a cloud on a perfect day. She buried her face and drew in a breath, but there was no girl smell left. There was the scent of an old suitcase and of the unclean space beneath an empty bed.

She waited for Hunt’s car to leave, then rose on numbed legs and opened the door. The night air was a fog that tasted of growing things. She crossed the drive to the edge of the yard, to the high weeds where she’d last seen the wink of white and orange. It took several minutes to find the bottle of oxycontin and carry it back inside. She locked the door. Her fingers shook and the pills tumbled out. She selected four of them, spilled them on her tongue and swallowed them dry. Then she went back to Johnny’s bed, cupped the lamb beneath an arm and laid herself on the covers. She stared at the photographs, and for ten long minutes she endured the pain; then a soft and heavy hand pressed her into the mattress; it took her to a place where she could bear to touch the pictures that her son had hidden for so well and so long. She could say their names without hurt, and in her mind’s eye, she could see them move.

Hunt made a slow drive through the area. He checked side streets and driveways, but saw nothing that looked out of place. Houses were quiet and still, their driveways cluttered with pickup trucks, utility vans, and tired cars. No big sedan with its engine running. No silhouette behind glass.

When he circled back to Katherine’s street, he chose his place with care: far enough from her house to be unobtrusive, close enough to see if anyone came calling. She didn’t want a patrol car on the street. Fine. But he refused to leave her alone, here on the dark edge of things. He pulled off the road, rolled down his window and turned off the engine. He checked the time. Late.

Pushing down a twinge of guilt, he dialed his son and told him to lock the house, set the alarm.

“You’re not coming home, tonight?”

“I’m sorry, Allen. Not tonight. Did you get some dinner?”

“I’m not hungry.”

Hunt looked at his watch again. He cursed his wife for leaving, then remembered the things his son had said. Maybe it was his fault. Here he was again, another night away from his family because of the job. He stopped himself.

Not because of the job .

Not entirely .

He looked down the road to where Katherine’s drive spilled gravel onto warm blacktop. He saw lights through the trees, and wondered if he would be here, watching, if it was just another victim. If it was anyone but her.