The Last Child (10 page)

“It’s okay, Johnny.” The words traveled from some distant place. She swayed a bit, then said, “I’m fine.” She turned from her son and shambled to the short and lightless hall. “Let’s just go to bed.” She put a hand on the wall, stopped for three long seconds, and Johnny watched water run down her face. When she turned, her voice had nothing left. “Go home, Steve.”

Ken followed her to the end of the hall, looked back once, and shut the door. Johnny did not hear the lock drop, but he knew that it had. He wanted to punch the wall; instead, he looked at his Uncle Steve, who gathered his cans in silence. He tossed them in the trash and collected his keys, a giant ring of them that opened every door at the mall. Paradise to any other kid. Just metal to Johnny. Uncle Steve stopped at the door. His eyes were troubled, and he looked at Johnny differently. He put an arm on the doorjamb. “Is this how it is?” he asked, opening one palm in a gesture that encompassed Johnny and the short hall to the locked door.

“Pretty much.”

“Damn.” Uncle Steve nodded, which Johnny thought was about all he could ever do. “About this morning…”

“What about it?” Johnny asked.

“She’s just real pretty.” Johnny turned away. “Thanks for not telling.”

But Johnny, too, had nothing left. He went to his room and sat on the edge of his bed. He looked at the clock on the table and watched the tiny hand tick from one white slash to the next. He counted seconds until the headboard across the hall began its unholy thump; then he went in search of his mother’s keys.

Ninety-four
, he thought, and locked the front door behind him.

Ninety-four seconds
.

He splashed through the mud and started his mother’s car. At the bottom of the drive he opened the door, leaned out, and picked up a rock the size of a tennis ball.

When he left the house behind, Johnny steered with care. The windshield was fogged and only one headlight worked. He saw wet pavement, a hint of ditch. He wiped the glass with his hand and looked for the turn that would take him to the rich side of town.

He slowed as he turned onto Ken’s street. The houses loomed, set back on huge lawns. Long walks curved across velvet grass and gates guarded the drives, the metal so black it looked cold. Johnny turned off the headlights as his tires crunched against the curb. He left the engine running. It would only take a second.

The rock felt perfect in his hand.

Detective Hunt drove fast down wet, narrow roads. The crime scene was three miles behind him, medical examiner packing up the body, Hunt’s people still on scene. Things had changed after Cross showed him the map. Pieces had shifted in Hunt’s mind, possibilities, variables. David Wilson was killed, Hunt believed, because he’d somehow found Tiffany Shore.

I found her
, he’d told the boy, and now he was dead.

But where did he find her? How? Under what circumstances? And most important, who killed him? Hunt had drilled in on the car that ran him off the road, the man driving that car. That was logical, but the bend in the river impacted that logic. Hunt had assumed that there were three different men at or near the bridge when the deed was done: Wilson, now dead; the driver of the car that killed him; a random black male two miles downriver. Now Hunt had to question that. Maybe Johnny’s giant was not just in the wrong place at the wrong time. Maybe he drove the car that killed David Wilson. Or maybe not.

Two men or three?

Damn!

Hunt needed to talk to Johnny, not later, but now, right this minute. He had new questions. He radioed dispatch and asked to be connected to the patrol unit he’d assigned to take Johnny and Katherine home. He looked at his watch and cursed as the connection was routed. Almost ten hours, that’s how long Tiffany had been gone, and the stats were as cold and exact as only numbers could be. Few abductees made it past the first day; that’s just how it ran.

Speed.

It all came down to speed.

I found her
.

Hunt needed to ask Johnny about the man with the scarred face, about what he saw on the bridge. Hunt needed to know if the two men were one and the same. Not speculation or theory, fact.

“Connecting now,” dispatch told him.

A second voice crackled on the radio. Hunt identified himself and asked the officer for Johnny’s twenty.

“I just left his house. He was in the driveway last I saw him.”

“How long ago, exactly?”

A pause. “Twenty minutes.”

“Twenty minutes. Got it.” Hunt clicked off. Another five would bring him to the house.
Come on
,
come on
. He accelerated until the car went light beneath him, steered at dangerous speeds over the slick black roads.

More than three hours since the motorcycle was struck. Whoever hit David Wilson could be anywhere by now, out of the county, out of the state, but Hunt didn’t think so. It was risky to cover distance with an abducted child. Once an Amber Alert went out, the public became very aware. Most of these perverts wanted to grab the kid and go to ground. Johnny Merrimon was right about that. And while some abductions were carefully orchestrated, most were matters of opportunity. A child left in the car or untended in a busy store. A child walking alone.

Like Alyssa Merrimon.

She’d been walking home at dusk, alone on an empty stretch of road. No one could have known she’d be there. No one could have planned for that. Same with Tiffany Shore. She’d lingered near the parking lot after the bell rang. It was a matter of opportunity. And desire.

Hunt braked for a red light, then turned left without stopping and felt the back end lose traction. He corrected the drift, straightened. He thought of evil and of the hard lump in the holster under his arm.

When word came in of Tiffany’s abduction, Hunt had ordered a massive response. He’d sent patrol cars to verify the locations of all known sex offenders. Most were considered low probability: voyeurs, exhibitionists; but there were plenty of individuals convicted of rape or child abuse or some other heinous act. Hunt kept a short list of the worst: the deranged, sadistic individuals who were capable of just about anything. These men never got over the evil that drove them. There was no curing, no fixing. For these assholes, it was only a matter of time, so Hunt kept on top of them. He knew where they lived and what they drove; he knew their habits and their predilections. He’d seen photos, talked to victims, and seen the scars firsthand. None of those fuckers should be out of prison.

Not now.

Not ever.

Most were accounted for; they’d been located and interviewed. Almost all had given permission for a search of their homes, and all of the searches had come up negative. Those who had refused were under constant surveillance and Hunt got regular reports. He knew what they were eating and when; if they were alone or not, and if not, who they were with. He knew their locations, their activities. Awake or asleep. Static or on the move. Hunt fielded calls and kept his men sharp as they continued to work the list.

Hunt ran the names in his head. No one on the list stood six and a half feet tall. None had scars like the Merrimon kid had described. If Cross was right, that meant they had a new player, someone off the grid. And if Cross was wrong…

The possibilities were endless.

Hunt pulled a photograph of Tiffany Shore from his jacket pocket and glanced at it. He’d taken it from her distraught mother just a few hours ago. It was a school photo, and in it Tiffany was smiling and self-aware. He looked for similarities to Alyssa, but there were precious few. Alyssa had dark hair and fragile features; she looked young and small and innocent, with the same dark eyes as her brother. Tiffany had full lips, a perfect nose, and hair like yellow silk. The picture showed a graceful neck, nascent breasts, and a knowing smile that hinted at the woman she might one day become. The girls looked as if they had little in common, but they did.

They were innocent, both of them, and they were his responsibility.

His
.

Nobody else’s
.

That thought still simmered in Hunt’s mind when his cell phone rang. He glanced at caller ID. The Chief. His boss. He gave it four rings, then, against his better judgment, he answered.

“Where are you?” The Chief wasted no time. It was barely twelve months since Alyssa vanished, and now they had another missing girl. He’d be under his own pressures, Hunt knew: Tiffany’s family, city government, the press.

“I’m en route to Katherine Merrimon’s house. I’ll be there in a few minutes.”

“You’re my lead detective. You should be at David Wilson’s house or at the crime scene. Do I really need to spell that out for you?”

“No.”

But the Chief spelled it out. “If we assume that Wilson found Tiffany Shore—and that
is
what we’re assuming—then you should be backtracking his activities. Where he went. Who he talked to. Any choice he made today, any path that could have intersected with Tiffany Shore—”

“I know all that,” Hunt interrupted sharply. “I sent Yoakum to his house. I’ll meet him there shortly, but this comes first.”

“Do I want to know why you’re going to Katherine Merrimon’s house?” Hunt heard the doubt, the sudden distrust.

“Her son may have information.”

Hunt pictured the Chief: flunkies in his office, fat man’s sweat staining his shirt. His voice was a politician’s voice.

“I need to know that you’re on this, Hunt. Are you on this?”

“That’s a bullshit question.” Hunt knew the source of the Chief’s doubt, but could not hide the anger he felt. So he spent time on the Merrimon case. So what? Maybe he felt more than most cops would. It was an important case; but that’s not how the Chief saw it. No. He heard about Hunt, awake every night at three in the morning; Hunt, showing up at sunrise on a Sunday to pore over evidence he’d already seen a hundred times; harassing judges to sign warrants that never panned out; working overtime, then off the clock; leveraging other cops, resources that should be spent on other cases. He watched Hunt work himself ragged. He saw the pale skin and the weight loss, the sleepless eyes and the stacks of files on the floor of Hunt’s office. And there were other issues.

Rumors.

“It’s not a question, Hunt. It’s a demand, an imperative.”

Hunt clamped his teeth, barely able to speak around the emotion he was choking down. He ran major crimes. Lead detective. That was his job, his life. “I said, I’m on it.”

Hunt heard breath on the line, then a voice, muffled in the background. When the Chief spoke, his words came with precision. “I have no room for personal, Hunt. Not on this case.”

Hunt stared straight ahead. “Got it. No personal.”

“This is about Tiffany Shore.
Her
family. Not Alyssa Merrimon. Not her brother. And not her mother. Are we clear?”

“Crystal.”

A long pause, then a voice that hinted at regret. “Personal gets you fired, Clyde. It gets you drummed right the hell out of my department. Don’t make me do that.”

“I don’t need a lecture.” He left the rest unsaid:
Not from some fat, politician cop
.

“You’ve already lost your wife. Don’t lose your job, too.”

Hunt looked in the mirror and saw the rage in his own eyes. He pulled air deep into his lungs. “Just stay out of my way,” he said, and sounded like a reasonable man might sound. “Show a little faith.”

“You’ve been burning the faith candle for a year, and it’s burned pretty damn low. When the papers go to bed tomorrow night, I want to see a picture of Tiffany Shore sitting on her mother’s lap. Front page. That’s how we keep our jobs.” A pause, Hunt unwilling to trust his voice and therefore silent. “Give me a happy ending, Clyde. Give me that, and I’ll pretend you’re the same cop you were a year ago.”

The Chief hung up.

Hunt punched the roof of his car, then turned into Johnny’s driveway. He noticed at once that the station wagon was gone. When he knocked on the front door, it rattled enough to make the house sound hollow. Hunt looked through the small window and saw Ken Holloway emerging from the dark hall. He wore shined shoes under slightly wrinkled pants, and worked to get his shirt tucked in. He cinched up an alligator belt, then paused at a mirror to smooth his hair and check his teeth. A revolver hung in his right hand.

“Police, Mr. Holloway. Put down the gun and open the door.”

Holloway twitched, suddenly aware that he could be seen through the window. A deprecating smile rose on his face. “Police who?”

“Detective Clyde Hunt. I need to speak to Johnny.”

The smile disappeared. “May I see a badge?”

Hunt pressed his shield to the glass, then stepped away from the door and lowered one hand to the butt of his service weapon. Holloway donated money to good causes. He served on boards and played golf with powerful people.

But Hunt knew the man.

It had taken a year of watching Katherine and Johnny: odd encounters, like the one at the grocery store; things said and not said; a limp or a bruise; the boy’s naked eyes when he thought he was being tough. Hunt had pushed, but Katherine was gone most of the time, out of it, and Johnny was scared. Hunt had nothing solid.

But he knew.

Another step back cleared three feet between Hunt and the door. The dark bulk of Holloway’s chest was visible through the slash of window. He looked meaty and tan, with a broad chest above a thick stomach. His face appeared behind the glass. “It’s the middle of the night, Detective.”

“It’s barely nine, Mr. Holloway. A child has been abducted. Please open the door.”

The lock disengaged and the door swung open a foot. Creases cut the flesh of Holloway’s face, but Hunt saw damp spots at the hairline where he’d tried to make himself crisp. His hands were empty. “What does Tiffany Shore’s disappearance have to do with Johnny?”

“Can you step away from the door, please?” Hunt kept his voice professional, which was hard. He’d as soon shoot Ken Holloway as look at him.

“Very well.” Holloway pushed the door wide and turned, his hands slapping the sides of his legs.