John Hart - The Last Child

He fell.

Climbed back to his feet.

Tried again.

Johnny opened the gate and stepped into the cemetery. Fifteen feet away, twelve, Freemantle oblivious. Johnny risked a glance at the coffin. It was small, a child’s coffin. He stepped closer and Freemantle looked up. His damp eyes jumped from Johnny’s face to the bare place in the ground. He hobbled a step, shovel blade rising, then crunching back into the earth. Johnny saw sadness and pain and dirt and blood, what looked like a piece of wood sticking out of his side. “Stop,” Johnny said.

Freemantle did as he was told, then raised a hand, palm up and flat. He gestured to the place where he’d scraped in the dirt, then finally looked at the gun. He looked at it for a long time, like he wasn’t sure what it was or why it was pointed at his chest. When he spoke, his words were thick. “Did you come to help me?”

“What?”

“I been asking for help, but he won’t talk to me.”

“Who?”

“Is he talking to you?”

“I don’t know what you mean.”

The scars twisted on his face. One eye had a milky lens at its center. “I can’t make the hole.”

Johnny risked a glance at the wall. Jack shook his head. Johnny looked at the coffin. “Do you remember me?”

A nod. “You was running and I picked you up.”

“Why?’

“God said.”

“God said to pick me up?” Another nod. “Why?”

“He didn’t say.”

“Johnny.”

It was Jack, but Johnny ignored him. “What else did God tell you?”

“She’s my baby.” Freemantle pointed at the coffin. On his ruined face the tears gathered and fell. “I can’t make the hole.”

Johnny looked once at Jack.

Then he lowered the gun.

Cross drove with a deft hand through the outskirts of town, then north. Hunt watched neighborhoods slide by, then light industrial. His thoughts were neither of the discovered car nor of David Wilson, but of the seven small flags, and of Alyssa Merrimon. He could not shake the thought of her under that damp earth. Her young life ended, her family destroyed. Thoughts descended, too, of Hunt’s own hell: a year of sleepless nights and anguish, twelve months of failure, his own family gone to ruin. All that time, and he’d never been able to let go. What was job? What was personal?

When his phone rang, he looked at caller ID and it felt prophetic. “Hello, Katherine.”

“Any word on Johnny?” She sounded bad.

“No. Nothing.”

“He should have called by now. Johnny would have called.”

“We have units out looking for him. He’s a smart kid. We’ll find him.” He paused, aware of Cross in the car. “I’m sorry I haven’t come by to discuss this in person. I would have, but…”

“He should have called.”

“Katherine?” Concern was in his voice. She picked up on it.

“It was a bad night,” she said.

“Are you okay?”

“I’m better now, but I need my son home.”

“We’ll find him,” Hunt said.

She hesitated, and when she spoke, her voice came powder soft. “If you promise me, I’ll believe you.”

Hunt understood the desperation those words implied. He closed his eyes and pictured her in that house. She sat on Johnny’s bed, one lip caught between porcelain teeth. She was holding her breath, fingers clenched, lashes long and black on the skin beneath her eyes. “I promise,” Hunt said.

“Swear it.”

“We’ll find him.”

“Thank you, Detective.” Her breath traveled down the line. “Thank you, Clyde.” She hung up, and Hunt closed the phone. He rubbed his eyes and felt grit beneath the lids.

Cross passed a car, then eased right. “Johnny’s mom?” he asked.

“Yes.”

They drove on, left the business district behind, and rolled into open country. Cross kept his hand steady on the wheel. He cleared his throat. “You should know that rumors are flying.” Hunt stared at him. “At the station,” Cross continued. “People are talking.”

“What rumors?”

“That you think a cop’s involved with Burton Jarvis. Involved with these dead kids. Maybe with Alyssa Merrimon.”

“Rumors can be dangerous things.”

“I’m just saying-”

“I understand what you’re saying.”

A hundred yards flowed under the tires. When Cross spoke, it was with care. “The Chief told the office staff not to let you anywhere near the personnel files. You, specifically. That’s where the rumor started. I just thought you should know.”

Hunt watched the grass, the sky. He thought of the many ways he’d like to punish the Chief. “Do we have somebody at David Wilson’s car?”

“It’s in the county, so we had to bring in the sheriff. One of his deputies is on site. He knows better than to touch it.”

“I hope you’re right.”

“Not much farther.”

The vehicle was a late-model Toyota Land Cruiser, black. It was angled, nose-down, in a rocky, brush-choked ravine that had to be thirty feet deep. The trailer was still attached, though it had twisted sideways and jackknifed onto the roof. “Has anybody been down there?”

The deputy shook his head. “Sheriff said to cooperate, so that’s what I’m doing. Nobody’s been down there.”

Hunt surveyed the route down. It was loose rock and thin soil. Trees grew along the lip, weeds and brush. “You have rope in the trunk, Cross?”

“Yes.”

“Get it.”

Hunt tied off the rope and dropped it down the incline. He and Cross descended, shale sliding underfoot. Hunt was first down. A ribbon of water snaked down the gulley and ran under the car. The roof had collapsed under the weight of the trailer. The front end was damaged, paint scraped from the sides. A spiderweb of cracks stretched across the windshield. “Don’t touch anything.”

Cross peered through the window. “Keys are in the ignition.” He shifted. “It’s still in drive.”

Hunt used a handkerchief to open the passenger door. Heat flooded out. Stale car smell. The seat leather was worn shiny on the driver’s side. Backseats were down, the cargo area crammed with climbing gear. Hunt saw a motocross jacket and muddy boots. A gasoline can was wedged behind the driver’s seat. No sign of blood from an accident. “Looks like somebody ditched it.”

“A good place for it,” Cross said.

Hunt used the same handkerchief to open the glove compartment. He prodded papers with a pen, then closed it. He studied the floorboards, then peered under the seats. “Hello,” he said.

“What?”

Hunt reached under the seat with the pen and came out with a brass casing. He straightened and Cross pushed closer. “Forty-five.” Hunt pulled an evidence bag from a pocket and slipped the casing into it. He held it to the light that filtered down. “Let’s get some people out here.”

Hunt and Cross waited for the technicians to arrive. They stood on the gravel shoulder, staring at the battered vehicle. It took twenty minutes: two crime scene vans, four technicians. “I want it worked up where it is. Prints, fibers. Everything that you can do here and now, I want you to do it. Time is an issue. When you’re done, you can haul it out of there and take it to impound.”

The lead technician studied the vehicle, the slope. “Are you serious?”

“There’s rope. You’ll manage.” Hunt looked at the sky. Black clouds were rising in the south. “Just get it out of there before the rains come. I don’t want another day like the last one.” Hunt watched the technicians get to work, then called Yoakum and filled him in.

“It’s a good break,” Yoakum said.

“What about there?”

“Dr. Moore confirmed a second body.”

“And?”