John Hart - The Last Child

The SBI was in Yoakum’s house.

They had a warrant.

“He tried to kill me,” Jack said. “You saw it. Jesus. That big motherfucker tried to kill me dead.”

“If he wanted you dead, you’d be dead.” Johnny knelt beside Freemantle. “Don’t be such a girl.”

“Don’t touch him, Johnny. What are you doing?”

“I’m not touching him. Chill.” Johnny leaned closer to Freemantle. “He’s just sick.” Freemantle’s lips were moving, and there were words there, Johnny thought. He leaned closer.

“… house is on fire… Momma’s on fire…”

Johnny heard it.

“… house is on fire… Momma’s on fire…”

The words slipped away. Johnny looked up. “Did you hear that?”

“No.”

“Come help me.”

“Screw that.”

“He needs medicine or a hospital.”

“Fine,” Jack said. “We’ll go home and call the ambulance. Let them worry about it.”

“If we call an ambulance, they’ll call the cops and I won’t find out what he knows.”

“Let the cops ask him. That’s their job.”

“The cops want him for murder. They think Alyssa is dead. They won’t ask him anything. Not fast enough anyway.” Johnny pushed on Freemantle’s shoulder but the man didn’t stir.

“So what do you want to do?”

“I don’t know, man. Alright? I’m making this up as I go. I just need one more chance. Some time, that’s all. God damn it, Jack, just help me.”

“Fine. What do you want me to do?”

“Watch him. I’m going to get the truck.”

“That’s twenty minutes.”

But Johnny was already gone. Jack looked down at Freemantle’s cracked lips, eyes that rolled behind paper lids. “This sucks,” he said, then picked up the pistol. He pointed it at Levi Freemantle, then sat on the dirt.

Levi burned in a black fire. He knew it was fire because he’d been on fire before. He’d been on fire in a burning house, his momma in his arms, her hair gone up like a torch. He didn’t know why the house was burning or why he was in it now. Seemed like that had happened a long time ago .

But he was burning.

Pain so bad it was under his skin .

He heard voices, far away; and he tried to tell them .

… house is on fire… Momma’s on fire…

But they couldn’t hear him. And nobody came to help .

Nobody came .

Skin so hot .

Burning…

Johnny ran all the way, and was sucking wind when he made it to the truck. He climbed in, closed the door. The key was slick between his fingers, but the engine turned over. Blue smoke rolled in the still air. Gospel on the radio. Johnny drove for the barn and left the motor running. Jack stood in the door and looked miserable.

“How are you going to get him up?”

Johnny didn’t answer. He hopped out of the truck, went into the barn, and knelt by Freemantle. He called his name, then touched his arm and looked up. “This guy’s on fire.”

“Duh.”

“No. It’s gotten worse. He’s burning up.”

“… Momma’s on fire… house is on fire…”

“What the hell?” Jack leaned closer. “Did you hear that?”

Johnny pointed toward the burned house. “I think his mother died in that fire.” Johnny pushed on the man’s shoulder one last time, shook him hard. He rocked back on his knees. “We can’t get him in the truck by ourselves.”

“He came around once.”

“We should throw water on his face.”

“That only works in the movies.”

“Shit,” Johnny said.

“I say we leave him here and get the hell out.”

Johnny shook his head. “We wait.”

“Enough’s enough, Johnny.”

“I stole the truck. I make the call.”

So they waited, blue smoke in the air, gospel on the radio.

Hunt drove twice through Yoakum’s neighborhood, but each time he passed Yoakum’s street, the SBI van still sat in the drive, so he let it go. He called Cross to check on the situation at the Jarvis site. He got him after four rings. “Yeah. The medical examiner is here. First body should be up within the hour. He thinks we’ll get them all out today. Midafternoon, maybe. By sundown, for sure.”

“How about media?”

“About what you’d expect. You coming out?”

“Anything to see?”

Cross paused. Voices were muffled in the background. “Not yet.”

“Call me when there is.”

Hunt clicked off. He was at an intersection on the poorest side of town. The houses were old, with cracks in the clapboards. Gray undershirts hung on clotheslines. He saw rusted oil tanks, granite block foundations that raised the floor joists off the damp earth. Years of debris settled beneath the nearest house, and Hunt saw a smooth spot in the dirt where dogs slid in and out. A hundred years of failed sharecroppers had settled on this side of town, and it showed. Hunt was a mile from the freed slave cemetery, surrounded by poverty and hopelessness, the lingering shadow of past injustice.

The light turned green.

Hunt did not move.

Something shifted in the back of his mind. A car honked behind him, so he drove through the intersection and pulled to the curb as the driver behind him gunned his engine and blew past. Hunt saw neon under the chassis, spinners on the hubs, and gang colors hanging from the rearview. Trustless eyes stared out of a guarded face, bass-heavy music thumped from the speakers, but Hunt forced the image out. His mind had been in the past.

Sharecroppers. Wet clothes .

The pink tongue of a mongrel in the shade…

He replayed the last minute.

And then he thought he had it.

He reached for the phone to call Yoakum, and then he remembered that Yoakum was in the backseat of a state cruiser halfway to Raleigh. He dialed Katherine Merrimon instead. She answered, hopeful but sounding tired. “I needed to see if you were home,” Hunt said.

Sudden life. “Johnny?”

“Not yet. I’m coming over.”

It took twenty-three minutes with traffic. She wore faded jeans, cut short, sandals, and a wrinkled shirt that hung from the bones of her shoulders. “You look tired,” Hunt told her. And she did. Her eyes had retreated into their sockets. She had less color than usual.

“Ken showed up at three in the morning. I couldn’t get back to sleep.”

“Here? He came here?”

“I didn’t let him in or anything. He beat on the door, made some more ugly comments. He was drunk. He just needed to bark.”

An angry stillness settled behind Hunt’s eyes. He knew the look of an abused woman lying to herself. “Don’t you dare make excuses for him.”

“I can handle Ken.”

Hunt forced himself to calm down. She was getting defensive, and there were better ways to handle the problem. “I need to go in Johnny’s room.”

“Okay.” Inside, she led him down the dim corridor to Johnny’s room. Hunt flipped on the light and looked at Johnny’s bed. When he did not see what he wanted, he moved to the row of books on Johnny’s dresser. He scanned the spines. “It’s not here.”

“What’s not?”

“Johnny had a history book about Raven County. Like this.” He made a shape with his hands, indicating its size. “It was on his bed a few days ago. You know anything about it?”

“No. Nothing. Is it important?”

“I don’t know. Maybe.” He started walking.

“You’re leaving?”

“I’ll stay in touch.”

At the door, she laid a hand on his arm. “Listen. About Ken. I appreciate that you’re being protective. If he becomes aggressive or makes threats or anything like that, I’ll call you. Okay?” She squeezed his arm lightly. “I’ll call.”