John Hart - The Last Child

Hunt stared at the gun. “I should pick that up and shoot you.”

“Don’t be melodramatic, Hunt. If this was your office, you’d have done the same thing.”

Hunt picked up his service weapon and slipped it back into its holster. “That was an ambush, pure and simple.”

The Chief flapped a hand. “You’re the one who suggested that a cop might be involved.”

“Involved with what?”

“Jarvis. Meechum.”

Hunt pointed a the door. “That’s what they think? That’s what they want to talk to him about?”

“We have to protect ourselves. We have to protect the investigation and the reputation of this department. To do that, we had to bring in somebody from the outside, somebody impartial, removed. I don’t like it, either, but there it is. This is how it’s done.”

“Who are you trying to convince? Me or you?”

“Don’t give me that, you sanctimonious prick. None of it would have been necessary if you’d kept the media shut down. Kept your people quiet.”

“None of my people talked.”

“You’re lead detective, Hunt. Anybody involved with this case is your responsibility.”

“This is bullshit.”

“Aren’t you the one that has argued, all along, that a cop is involved with Burton Jarvis? That’s what the boy saw, right? That was in his notes. A cop at Burton Jarvis’s house.”

“A security guard. Not a cop. We established that yesterday, the second we took Meechum down.”

“Did you?”

“Did I what?”

“Did you establish that it was a security guard at Jarvis’s house?”

“Obviously.”

The Chief leaned back in his chair. “Whose idea was it to go to the mall?”

“Yoakum’s.”

“Who came up with the idea that a security guard might be mistaken for a police officer?”

“Yoakum. Both of us.”

The Chief drummed his heavy fingers on the scratched surface of the desk. “Katherine Merrimon saw a car parked up the street from her house. She thought someone was watching the house. She thought it could be a cop car.”

“That had to be Meechum. He drives a sedan.”

“But not a cop car. Yoakum drives a cop car.”

“She had an impression. That’s all.”

The Chief rose up in his seat, eyes tight, skin wrinkled at the corners. “You’d have never found Meechum without Yoakum’s deductive reasoning. Isn’t that right? Yoakum led you to the mall.”

“He should get a medal.”

“Except, what if it’s not reasoning. What if he knew?”

“Knew what?”

“What if he was involved with Jarvis and Meechum all along? Not two men working together, but three.”

“That’s absurd,” Hunt said.

“You keep saying that.”

“We need to find Johnny Merrimon. He could clear this up in a second.”

“If he’ll talk to you.”

“He will,” Hunt said. “This time, he will.”

“So find the kid, and call me when you do. Call me the second he turns up. As soon as he says it wasn’t Yoakum at Jarvis’s house, I’ll call the SBI. In the meantime, Yoakum’s in the hot seat.”

Hunt shook his head. “This is still wrong.”

“Stop for a second and think. Burton Jarvis is dead. Meechum knew we were close because Holloway called him and told him. He was running scared. Had we taken Meechum alive, he’d have talked. Giving up a dirty cop would have bought a lot of slack from the DA. Yoakum would know that, so he’d have reason to want Meechum dead.” The Chief finally rose. “Now, I’m going to ask you again. Was the shoot clean?”

“I know Yoakum.”

“What have I told you about doing personal?”

“I know John Yoakum.”

“Do you? Do you, really?” The Chief waited. “What does he do on the weekends? Where does he take his vacations?”

Hunt had to admit it. “I don’t know. He never talks about it.”

“He’s never been married. Why is that?”

“How is this relevant?”

“You know,” the Chief declared. “Hell, we all do. He’s said it often enough.”

Hunt knew the words. Yoakum said them whenever the crime was particularly vicious, the betrayal most gruesome.

Darkness is a cancer of the human heart .

“So, he’s a cynic. Most cops are.”

The Chief shrugged. “Maybe he was talking about himself.”

The bullpen reverberated with low talk that died fast when Hunt stormed out of the Chief’s office. The door crashed into the wall, knocking a picture off center. He felt the stares, the speculation; it was a weight of metal, but nobody spoke, nobody asked, so Hunt took it on himself. He stopped in the middle of the room, raised both arms. “What just happened is bullshit. If anybody asks-media, family, whoever-that’s what you tell them.” He spun a circle and said it loud. “Bullshit.”

The word hung in the air. No one but Cross could meet his eyes, and even he was shaking his head. Hunt bit down on the angry words. Yoakum had never looked for friends in the department, never made the effort. He was a loner, a professional. What of it? What was wrong with that? He did the job. He lived his life.

Hunt left through the back door.

Already, the moisture was burning off the tarmac, off the broad, drooping leaves of a lonely tree by the edge of the road. Beyond the fence, heavy equipment shuddered and spat smoke. The lot smelled of diesel and mud and hot metal. Hunt slid into his car, started the engine, and set the air on high. He wrapped his hands around the wheel, let the cold air blast sweat on his face, and pictured Yoakum as he was dragged out in cuffs. Then he pictured Johnny. Johnny’s mom. He thought of how Yoakum had looked standing in that low, dank place by the river as the bodies came out. How angry he’d been. How disgusted.

No way did Yoakum have anything to do with that .

No way in hell .

He put the big car in reverse, whipped out of the slot, then racked the transmission into drive. There had to be an explanation, some reason that a shell casing found in David Wilson’s wrecked Land Cruiser had Yoakum’s print on it. If that explanation was anywhere, it would be at Yoakum’s house. Hunt tried not to think of the other side of the same coin: If Yoakum did have anything to do with the missing children, that evidence would most likely be found there, too. Hunt didn’t have a warrant or a key, but he didn’t care. A rock through the window would do just fine. A pry bar in the door. This was not about being a cop. This was about friendship. It was about faith and trust and the sharp, hot burn that kindled at the thought of the Chief’s betrayal. He’d sold Yoakum out to make the department look good, to make it look clean even as the case descended farther into the stink. “Bullshit.” Hunt muttered it under his breath.

But the print …

He shook his head.

The print was tough .

Hunt sliced through traffic, hung a left on the four-lane that led across town. Yoakum’s neighborhood was an old one, thick with bungalows that sat on elevated yards above concrete sidewalks buckled by tree roots the size of a man’s leg. The neighborhood was transitional but well-kept, shaded and quiet.

Hunt decided on the pry bar.

He made a quick right and, three blocks later, a left. Yoakum’s house was one-story with a peaked roof and cedar shingles aged to dull silver. Bright color shone in the flower beds. The shrubbery was cut back, trees tended.

A blue panel truck sat in the driveway. White letters stood out against the paint.

SBI.

Hunt eased the car to the curb, still a half block away. Neighbors were in their yards: faded women in bright robes, old men, a few long-haired kids who should be doing better things. Their faces all showed the same thing: surprise, concern. At Yoakum’s house, men in windbreakers with stenciled letters moved in and out of the front door. Hunt saw neither Oliver nor Barfield, but that didn’t matter.