John Hart - The Last Child

“Lightning falls.”

“What is that supposed to mean?”

“Nothing. I don’t know.” The sky lit up. Johnny pointed at the old oak tree. “That’s the tree they hung them from.”

Jack looked at the gnarled tree, its giant limbs spread and restless, black when the lightning fell. “How do you know?”

A roll in Johnny’s shoulders. “Can’t you feel it?”

“No.”

“The cemetery’s built around it. Three headstones at the base of it.” He raised a finger. “See how small they are. How rough they were cut.”

“I can’t see shit.”

“They’re there.”

“You’re losing it, Johnny.”

Johnny said nothing.

“There’s a stove in the barn. I got a fire going.”

Johnny stared at Freemantle. “I can’t leave.”

“You’ve been out here for hours. He’s not going anywhere. Look at him.”

“I can’t take the chance.”

“Have you thought about this? Really thought it through? He’s burying his kid, man, and from the way her coffin looked, I’d say he was burying her for the second time. That means he dug her up from some other grave. Do you even know how the girl died? Or why he carried her all this way to put her in the ground with no one around to see it?”

“We saw it.”

“We don’t even know if it’s really his kid.”

Light spilled from a distant cloud. “Look at him.” Both boys looked at Freemantle, slumped into himself, shattered by a grief so true it was unmistakable.

Jack lowered his voice. “Have you asked yourself why he’s covered with blood or how he got so injured? The real reason he grabbed you up the other day?”

“God told him to.”

“Don’t go smart-ass on me, man. When this guy comes in from the rain, we’re going to have to figure out what to do with him. I don’t want to be the only one thinking about that.”

“I just have one question, and as soon as he’s done with this”-Johnny gestured at the rain, the grave, the mud-“I’m going to ask him.”

“And if he won’t answer?”

“I helped bury his daughter.”

Jack’s voice rose. “If he won’t answer?”

“Give me the gun,” Johnny said.

“You threaten him, he’ll kill us.”

Johnny held out a hand. Jack looked at the giant in the mud, then dropped the gun in Johnny’s lap. It was cold and wet and heavy.

“I’m this close,” Johnny said.

But Jack was already gone.

Johnny watched the man and the rain and the silent, rising mud. After a minute, he dug into a pocket. When his hand came out, it held a feather, small and white and crushed. He held it for a long time, watched it go limp in the pounding rain. He thought hard about throwing it away, but in the end he closed his fingers and waited, gun in one hand, last feather in the other.

Hours later, lightning dwindled in the north. The forest dripped. Freemantle looked up at the racing clouds, the hint of moon behind them. It was the first time he’d moved since smoothing the earth above his daughter. There’d been no more sign of Jack, no more entreaties to come in out of the rain. There’d been the slow march of hours, the flash and noise, the storm that drove the cold water down. There’d been hard stone at Johnny’s back, and there’d been the two of them, twenty feet apart and unmoving. That had never changed.

Johnny tucked the feather back into his pocket, slipped the gun under his shirt.

Freemantle pushed himself up and stared after the storm. “I thought I’d get hit.” In the dark, his eyes were spilled ink, his mouth a gash of surprise and disappointment. It was after midnight, time a hard road behind them. Freemantle picked up the shovel, his discarded shoe. Using the shovel as a crutch, he walked past Johnny. “It doesn’t matter. It’s done.”

“I need to talk to you.”

“I’m done.”

The white gate swung on silent hinges. Freemantle moved slowly and Johnny fell in behind him. “Please.”

“I’m tired.”

Tired, Johnny thought. And sick. He could smell infection in the air that came off the big man. He stumbled once as the barn drew near. Johnny put out a hand, but it was like trying to catch the weight of a tree. His skin was hard and hot. He almost went down. “Tired,” Freemantle said, and then they were at the barn.

Inside, Johnny saw dust and straw and metal tools, two big lanterns that hung from chains. Heat rolled over them as they stepped through the door. In the far corner, an iron stove stood on slabs of slate. Its sides were rounded, and coals glowed behind the grate. Jack was laid out on a mound of straw, his jacket folded for a pillow. He jumped when Freemantle closed the door.

“It’s okay,” Johnny said, stepping closer. Jack’s eyes caught the glow from the stove. “You crying?” Johnny asked.

“No.”

It was a lie, but Johnny let it go. In the closed confines of the barn, the shadows stretched long. Freemantle looked immense and dangerous. Johnny kept the pistol out of sight. “My name’s Johnny. This is Jack.”

Freemantle stared. His eyes were tinted yellow, lips cracked deep enough to show hints of meat. “Levi.” He pulled off his shirt and hung it on a nail close to the stove. His chest and arms were padded with muscle. There were long, thin scars that looked like knife wounds, a hard tight pucker that could have come from a bullet. The branch in his side was jagged and black.

“That looks bad,” Johnny said.

“It only hurts if I try to pull it out.”

A smell rose, wet and earthy. Where Levi stood, water dripped onto stone, faded to a dark hint, and was gone in the heat. His eyelids drooped. “Almost there,” he said.

“What?”

He opened his eyes. “Forgot where I was.”

Johnny opened his mouth, but Jack spoke first. “Why did you carry the coffin out here?”

Freemantle pinned him with yellow, fevered eyes. “Why did I carry it?”

“I’m just asking.”

“I can’t drive. Momma said driving was for other folks.” His eyes drifted shut and his body leaned left; he staggered once to stop from falling. “Momma said…”

“You okay, mister?”

His eyes snapped open. “Who wants to know?”

“My name is Johnny, remember?”

“I don’t know nobody named Johnny.”

“You need a hospital. You need a doctor.”

Freemantle ignored him and limped to a shelf on the far wall. Johnny saw machine oil, rat poison, hooked metal tools, and rags gone stiff with age. Freemantle picked up a rusted box cutter and a plastic bottle smeared with cobwebs. He sat by the fire and cut the legs off of his pants, throwing the rags on the ground by the stove. The top came off the bottle and he poured brown liquid into the wounds on his knees.

Jack appeared next to Johnny. “That’s for animals,” he whispered.

“Bullshit.”

“It says for veterinary use only.” He pointed and the boys watched. Whatever it was, it hurt when he poured it.

“Are you okay?” Johnny finally asked. Freemantle nodded, then tipped the bottle over the wound in his side. “You need antibiotics.”

Freemantle ignored him. He tried to pull the rag from his finger, but the flesh was so swollen that the cloth bit like wire. He cut it free, and Johnny saw the shredded wound his teeth had made. He turned his face away as Freemantle poured more of the liquid on the finger. Twice. Three times. His muscles locked up, relaxed, and then he lay down on the stone. “You boys shouldn’t be out here.”

“I just want to talk.”

“I’m done,” Freemantle said.

“How did your daughter die?”

“Jesus, Jack. Shut up.” Johnny’s whisper was fierce. He was here, now, and Jack was going to fuck it all up.

“They say you killed those people.” Jack’s voice was tight. “If you had a good reason, then I won’t worry so much about you killing us.” Jack was ready to bolt. Already he was angled for the door.