John Hart - The Last Child

“I don’t want to go back there. Not even once. Not ever.”

“We’ll figure something out,” Hunt said.

“What about Social Services?” Her voice was bleak.

Hunt put the car in park and turned off the engine. The red light was bright on the glass, and it was quiet in the car. Hunt turned in his seat, looked at Johnny’s mother. “Let’s worry about that tomorrow.”

She nodded.

“Are you guys going to be okay?” Hunt looked from one face to another and Johnny felt a level of affection that surprised him. He didn’t want Hunt to leave. He didn’t want to be in a crap motel. He wanted to be home. Not Ken’s house. Home. He wanted Hunt to say, one more time, that it would be alright.

“What happens now?” Johnny asked.

“I’m not sure yet. I’ll come by tomorrow. I’ll know more then.”

“Okay.” Johnny reached for the door.

Hunt stopped him. “I need the gun, Johnny.”

“What gun?” It was instinct.

Hunt spoke softly. “Your uncle’s gun. The one you took out of his truck. You don’t have it with you or I’d have asked you sooner. It needs to be accounted for.”

Johnny almost lied, but didn’t. “Jack has the gun.”

“Are you sure?”

“Yes.”

“That’s unfortunate.”

“He won’t do anything stupid.”

Hunt nodded, but it was not a good nod. “Good night, Johnny. Good night Katherine.”

They got out of the car, alone in the neon.

The police station was close to empty when Hunt arrived. Night patrols were on the street. Office staff was at the minimum. The desk sergeant was an older man named Shields, a burnout and a short-timer. He didn’t give Hunt the questions another sergeant might have, didn’t care about the things that happened earlier in the day. Hunt asked for the phone logs and Shields handed them over.

Hunt spent thirty minutes with the logs but didn’t find what he was looking for. He was at his desk, about to leave, when Yoakum walked in. He wore the same clothes and looked tired. “Look what the cat dragged in,” Hunt said.

Yoakum sat opposite Hunt and popped the top on a can of Pepsi. “They dropped the assault charge.”

“That’s good.”

“It was bullshit anyway.”

“They searched your house,” Hunt told him. “They brought in an entire team to do it. Six people, maybe more.”

“Did they pick up after themselves?”

“One can only hope.”

Yoakum shrugged. “Not much to see in my house.”

Hunt thought of the day Yoakum had suffered: dragged out in cuffs, interrogated. His friend. A cop. “How was the rest of it?”

Yoakum sipped, took his time. “Raleigh’s a daisy of a town.”

“I should go there more often.”

“Pretty girls.”

“I bet.”

“So,” Yoakum looked around. “What did I miss?”

“Not much.”

Yoakum saw the lie. “Really?”

“I think I know how your fingerprint ended up on a shell casing in David Wilson’s car.”

“You think?”

“Call it a theory.”

“A theory would be timely.”

“Yes.”

“Are you messing with me?”

Hunt stood. “Let’s take a ride.”

Yoakum stood, too. “I get goose bumps when you say that.”

Everything in the hotel room was limp: sheets, curtains, air pumping from the window unit. The rug was dark and patterned and smelled of other people. They’d checked in and said nothing to each other. There was too much, and not enough. She’d kissed him once on the forehead, then locked herself in the bathroom.

The shower was running.

Her car keys were on the table.

Johnny stood in the slash of red light that cut between the curtains. He stared at the keys and thought of Jack. He thought of the things they had shared, and he thought of Jack’s bike. Cold metal and rust. Rubber rotted through.

Johnny looked outside. A half-moon hung in the clear night sky. The red light flickered. What would his father do if he was Johnny? How about Hunt?

What if they knew where to find Jack?

A friend.

A liar.

Johnny listened to the shower run. He wrote a note to his mother, then slipped through the door and locked it.

The car keys were heavy in his hand.

Hunt talked as he drove. Town fell behind them and the dark spread out as he steered for the mines. He told Yoakum everything and Yoakum took it in. What happened at Johnny’s house. The body in the shaft. Jack’s bike. All of it. Then he gave his theory. When he was finished, Yoakum said, “There are holes in what you’re saying.”

“Not many, and not for long.”

“It’s pure speculation.”

“But easy to check.” They crossed the same river, same bridge. “I’m tired of this.”

Yoakum frowned. “Cross is a cop. I can’t buy it.”

Hunt drove in silence. “When David Wilson’s body turned up, Cross is the one who pointed me at Levi Freemantle. He stood under that bridge with a map and showed me exactly what I needed to see. I went off on a wild goose chase for an escaped convict who had nothing to do with any of this.”

“You sure Freemantle had nothing to do with it? He’s the one that told Cross’s kid where to find the body. He told Jack about the mine shaft.”

Hunt looked sideways. “Did he? We don’t know what happened between those two.”

“So, Jack just knew?”

The tires hammered a rough spot on the pavement. “His bike,” Hunt said. “I’m guessing he knew.”

“But why would he tell? He’s implicated himself.”

Hunt had no answer.

“You think Cross killed David Wilson?” Yoakum asked. “You really believe that Cross ran him into the abutment? Drove him off the bridge, then stood on his throat? That’s hard-core stuff, Clyde, premeditated murder. Cross is not my favorite guy, but he’s still a cop.”

“Wilson had climbing gear and a dirt bike. I think he spent the day riding trails and exploring different mine sites. I think he saved the biggest, deepest shaft for last. I think he found Alyssa’s body and finding it got him killed.”

“It’s thin, Clyde.”

“Who found Wilson’s Land Cruiser?”

“Cross.”

“That’s right. He said it was a drunk out shining deer. The drunk called it in from a pay phone and got Cross. No ID on the caller. Public phone. Convenient, don’t you think?”

“Cops get lucky. That’s what makes the job work half the time. I don’t see you bitching when it’s you that catches the break.”

“Do you ever see Cross at the shooting range?”

“Of course.”

“You ever fire your personal weapon at the range?”

“Oh, shit.”

“Could he have picked up one of your casings?”

Yoakum had no easy response. He pictured how it was at the range: ear protectors, safety glasses, the narrow concentration, the target, and nothing else.

Hunt continued, voice sharp. “Word got out that I was looking for a cop. So Cross gave me a cop. He gave me David Wilson’s car and a shell casing with a print on it. He gave me you.”

Yoakum said nothing. Personal did that to him sometimes.

“We’re close.”

Yoakum stared out the window. “What do you know about these people we’re going to see?”

Hunt turned right and the road shrank. Ahead was a sign, white spray paint and the word “Closed.” “We drove past them on the way in, a man and a woman. He likes beer. She’s ugly as stink. They live in a busted-up trailer near the entrance to the mines. One vehicle when I was here before. As far as I can tell, they’re the only ones that live anywhere near the mine. Other than that,” Hunt said. “I know nothing.”

“Nothing?”