John Hart: The Last Child

Jack tore his gaze from his mother. His father was closer, now. Five feet. Four. “It’s your fault.” Jack’s voice was a whisper.

“Son.”

He stabbed the gun at his father. “I’m going to hell, and it’s your fault.”

Jack stepped closer as his mother wailed. Cross raised his hands. “Son…”

“God forgives the little sins.”

Hunt saw the hammer move, but he was too far away. “No.” He ran for Jack. The hammer rose and fell; Cross screamed as it dropped with a dry click. Jack pulled the trigger again, but nothing happened.

Hunt took the kid down.

The gun flew out of his hand and Cross reached for it. “Don’t touch that,” Hunt told him. He was flat on the grass, Jack pinned beneath him. “Don’t touch it and don’t move.”

“What do you mean?”

“None of you move.” Hunt hauled Jack to his feet and handed him over to Yoakum. “Gently,” he said, and Yoakum lead the boy away, crying and snot-faced.

“I want to talk to Johnny.” Jack struggled at the door of the car. He thrashed and yelled, “I want to talk to Johnny.” Yoakum’s hand on the top of his head. “Johnny! I want to talk to Johnny!”

The door closed, cutting him off, and he beat his head four times against the glass. Hunt picked up the gun and cracked the cylinder. Empty. He put the gun in his coat pocket. Cross risked a step, hands out. “He’s drunk. He has a problem. We’re getting him help.”

“You need to come with me,” Hunt said. “To the station.”

“He’s my son, Hunt. I’m not going to press charges.” Cross tried a weak smile.

Hunt remained expressionless, which took work. “You and Gerald,” Hunt said, hand very near his holstered weapon. “My asking is a courtesy.” He gestured to the neighboring yards, where several people stood and watched. Hunt stepped closer but did not lower his voice. “I have the story from Jack. What happened to Alyssa. Gerald’s involvement. Everything.” Hunt gave him one heartbeat. “We found her body a few hours ago.”

Cross looked at his son, his still weeping wife.

“Let’s do this right,” Hunt said.

When Cross looked back, the mask dropped off. His face was pure calculation. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“David Wilson found Alyssa’s body. At first, I thought he must have called the station and talked to you by pure accident, but there was no record in the phone logs, and nobody gets that lucky.”

“You’re wrong.”

“Save it. I talked to Patricia Defries tonight. She told me everything.” And she had. Cross had busted her on another check fraud scam. That would be her third felony, her third strike. If convicted, she’d pull twelve years, minimum. So Cross had made it easy for her. He wanted to know if anybody came around the mines. Anybody. Any time. She said she didn’t know why Cross cared about the mines, and Hunt believed her; not that he told her that. He liked her talking, liked her scared.

Hunt said, “I explained to her that check fraud is a much smaller charge than accessory to murder before the fact. I made her know that I was serious, and that she would go down with you. She talked and she’ll testify. She’ll tell how you showed up at the mines after she called, how five minutes later, Wilson tore past on his dirt bike with you right on his tail. She made note of the time. Johnny Merrimon saw Wilson come over the bridge railing fifteen minutes later.”

“She’s a crook and a drunk. No kind of witness.”

Hunt made a show of looking at the line of cars in the driveway. “Where’s your personal vehicle?” He asked. “Dodge Charger, right? How many body shops will I have to call before I find it? It won’t be local, of course. But Wilmington maybe? Raleigh? One of the big cities, I should think. But we’ll find it. Damage to the front fender. The paint will match what we found at the bridge.”

“I want a lawyer.”

Hunt motioned for the uniformed officers. “You’re under arrest for the murder of David Wilson. You have the right to remain silent-”

“I know my rights.”

“Anything you say can and will be used against you.”

“Wait a minute. Wait a minute.” Cross licked his lips. “I need to talk to you. Just to you. Just for a second.” Hunt hesitated. “You want to do the right thing, right? That’s what you’re all about, right? God damn Boy Scout.” Hunt held up a hand and the uniforms backed off. “You should think about what you’re doing. You should think real hard.”

“I don’t need to think. I have a warrant.”

Cross leaned in. His eyes flashed at the uniforms over Hunt’s shoulder and his whisper put hot breath in the air. “Your son was in the car, too.”

Hunt stepped away. “He was not.”

“He was in the front seat when Alyssa went under the tires.”

“I don’t believe you.”

“How’s he been the past year? Your boy? Normal? Same kid you had a year ago? Oh, let me guess. Sullen? Edgy? Gone dark on you, has he? Do the right thing, Hunt. Nothing more important than a man’s family. That’s what it’s all about.”

Hunt looked around the yard. Jack was a red splotch in the back of a cop car. Gerald was on the verge of tears. Cross’s wife had her eyes closed as she rocked and begged and wailed. “I don’t think your family is doing too well, Cross.”

“He’s your only child, right?”

Hunt held his gaze for three seconds.

“Do the right thing,” Cross said.

Hunt stepped back and motioned to the uniformed officers. “You have the right to an attorney.”

The cuffs came out.

Cross fought, and then went down, screaming. He lost his slippers as they dragged him to the car.

It was close to six when Hunt left the police station. Cross refused to talk, but the words spilled out of Gerald like a tide. It was guilt. Pure and simple.

The boy was eaten up.

The sun made a dim blush when the streets rose up, but Hunt’s house was still in a pocket of dark. He let himself in and stood quietly in the kitchen. The refrigerator hummed. A garage door opened somewhere down the street.

Hunt put his gun on the counter, his badge. The stairs sighed under his feet and he felt warm air when he opened the door to his son’s room. The boy was a tangle of blankets, blond hair, and lost innocence.

The past.

So many good things.

Hunt pulled a chair next to the bed and sat. He pressed fingertips against his eyes and saw the same crazy sparks. This did not have to be an ending. There was power in choice. Hunt believed that. It was never too late to do the right thing.

His lips moved in silence.

Never too late.

Hunt watched his son sleep, and his lips moved again.

Repeating it.

A prayer of his own.

It took Allen twenty minutes to wake up, and they were the longest twenty minutes of Hunt’s life. Twice he rose, but twice he stayed, until light, pale and pink, touched his son on the face. His eyes were very innocent when they opened. “Hey, Dad. What’s going on?” He scrubbed at his face and sat up against the pillows.

“You know I love you, right?”

“Yeah. Sure. What-”

“If you were ever in trouble, I’d do everything in my power to help you. You know that, too. No matter how bad things are, I’m your dad. I’ll help you. You know that, don’t you, Allen?”

“Sure. Of course.”

Hunt kept himself still. “Are you in trouble, son?”

“What? No.”

Hunt leaned in. “Is there anything you need to tell me? Anything at all. I’m on your side. You and me. Okay?”

“No, Dad. Nothing. What’s going on?”

Hunt was dying on the inside. He put a hand on his son’s arm. “I’m going to lie down for a while.” He stood, looked down. “It’s a big day, Allen.”