John Hart: The Last Child

Johnny tucked the big map back into the folder. The rest of the maps detailed the streets in town. Red ink marked a number of streets, small X marks over individual addresses. Notes in his handwriting lined the margins. Some neighborhoods were still untouched; a few were crossed off completely. He looked at the western side of town, wondering what part of it Jack had been talking about. He’d have to ask him. Later.

Johnny studied the map for a few more seconds, then folded it and set it aside. Alyssa’s things went back into the case and the case back under the bed. He picked up the large photo and slipped a red pen into his back pocket.

He was through the front door and about to lock it when the van turned into his driveway. Paint peeled from the hood in uneven patches; the right front fender was banged up and rusted. It slewed into the driveway with a shudder, and Johnny felt something like dismay. He turned his back, rolled up the map, and shoved it into the pocket that held the pen. He kept the photo in his hand so that it would not get wrinkled. When the van stopped, Johnny saw a flash of blue through the glass; then the window came down. The face behind it was unusually pale and bloated.

“Get in,” the man said.

Johnny stepped off the stoop and crossed the small patch of grass and weed. He stopped before he got to the edge of the drive. “What are you doing here, Steve?”

“Uncle Steve.”

“You’re not my uncle.”

The door squealed open, and the man stepped out. He wore a blue jumpsuit with a gold patch on the right shoulder. The belt was heavy and black. “I’m your father’s first cousin, and that’s close enough. Besides, you’ve called me Uncle Steve since you were three.”

“Uncle means family, and that means we help each other. We haven’t seen you in six weeks, and it was a month before that. Where have you been?”

Steve hooked his thumbs in the belt, making the stiff vinyl creak. “Your mom is hanging with the rich folks now, Johnny. Riding the gravy train.” He waved a hand. “Free house. No need to work. Hell, son, there’s nothing I can do for her that her boyfriend can’t do a thousand times better. He owns the mall, the theaters. He owns half the town, for God’s sake. He doesn’t need people like me getting in his way.”

“Getting in his way?” The disbelief came off Johnny in waves.

“That’s not-”

“You’re scared of him,” Johnny said in disgust.

“He signs my paycheck, me and about four hundred other guys. Now if he was hurting your mom, or something like that. That’d be one thing. But he’s helping her. Right? So why would I get in his way. Your dad would understand that.”

Johnny looked away. “Aren’t you late for your shift at the mall?”

“Yes, I am. So get in.”

Johnny did not move. “What are you doing here, Uncle Steve?”

“Your mom called and asked if I could take you to school. She said you missed the bus.”

“I’m not going to school.”

“Yes, you are.”

“No, I’m not.”

“Jesus, Johnny. Why do you have to make everything so damn difficult? Just get in the van.”

“Why don’t you just tell her that you took me and leave it there?”

“I told her I’d take you, so I have to take you. I’m not going anywhere until you get in the van. I’ll make you if I have to.”

Johnny’s voice dripped. “You’re not a cop, Steve. You’re just a security guard. You can’t make me do anything.”

“Screw this,” Steve said. “Wait right there.” He pushed past Johnny and small metal jingled on his belt. The uniform looked very crisp and made a rasping noise between his legs.

“What are you doing?”

“Talking to your mother.”

“She’s asleep,” Johnny said.

“I’ll wake her then. Don’t you go anywhere. I mean it.” Then he was through, into the small house that smelled of spilled booze and generic cleaner. Johnny watched the door click shut, then looked at his bike. He could be on it and gone before Uncle Steve made it back outside, but that’s not what a strong person would do. So Johnny pulled the map from his pocket and smoothed it against his chest. He took a deep breath, then went inside to deal with the problem.

It was quiet in the house, the light still dim. Johnny turned into the short hall and stopped. His mother’s door angled wide, and Uncle Steve stood in front of it, unmoving. Johnny watched for a second, but Steve neither moved nor spoke. As Johnny drew closer, he could see a narrow slice of his mother’s room. She still slept, flat on her back, one arm thrown across her eyes. The covers had fallen to her waist, and Johnny saw that she was undressed, so still, and Uncle Steve just stood there, staring. Then Johnny understood. “What the hell?” Then louder: “What the hell, Steve?”

Uncle Steve twitched in guilt. His hands came up, fingers spread. “It’s not what you think.”

But Johnny wasn’t listening. He took five quick steps and pulled his mother’s door closed. She still had not moved. Johnny put his back to the door, and felt the fire come up in his eyes. “You’re sick, Steve. She’s my mother.” Johnny looked around, as if for a stick or a bat, but there was nothing. “What’s wrong with you?”

Uncle Steve’s eyes showed rare desperation. “I just opened the door. I didn’t mean anything by it. Swear to God, Johnny. I’m not like that. I’m not that kind of guy. I swear it. Hand to God.”

A sheen of greasy sweat slicked Uncle Steve’s face. He was so scared, it was pitiful. Johnny wanted to kick him in the balls. He wanted to put him on the ground, then find the pipe under his bed and beat his balls flat. But he thought of Alyssa’s picture, and of the things he still needed to do. And he’d learned this year. He’d learned how to put emotion last. His voice came cold and level. He had things to do, and Steve was going to help him. “You tell her you took me to school.” Johnny nodded and stepped closer. “If she asks, that’s what you tell her.”

“And you won’t say anything?”

“Not if you do what I tell you.”

“Swear?”

“Just go, Uncle Steve. Go to work.”

Uncle Steve slipped past, hands still up. “I didn’t mean nothing by it.”

But Johnny had nothing else to say. He closed the door, then spread the map on the kitchen counter. The red pen was slick between his fingers. He smoothed his palm across the wrinkled paper, then slid a finger to the neighborhood he’d been working for the past three weeks.

He picked a street at random.

Detective Hunt sat at the cluttered desk in his small office. Files spilled from cabinet tops and unused chairs. Dirty coffee cups, memos he’d never read. It was 9:45. The place was a mess, but he lacked the energy to deal with it. He scrubbed his hands across his face, ground at the sockets of his eyes until he saw white streaks and sparks. His face felt rough, unshaven, and he knew that he looked every bit of his forty-one years. He’d lost so much weight that his suits hung on his frame. He’d not been to the gym or the shooting range in six months. He rarely managed more than one meal a day, but none of that seemed to matter.

In front of him, he’d spread his office copy of the Alyssa Merrimon file. A well-thumbed duplicate was locked in a desk drawer at home. He flipped pages methodically, reading every word: reports, interviews, summaries. Alyssa’s face stared out at him from an enlarged copy of her school photograph. Black hair, like her brother’s. Same bone structure, same dark eyes. A secret kind of smile. A lightness, like her mother had, an ethereal quality that Hunt had tried and failed to identify. The way her eyes tilted, maybe? The swept-back ears and china skin? The innocence? That’s the one that Hunt came back to most often. The child looked as if she’d never had an impure thought or done an ill deed in her entire life.