The Last Child (30 page)

“I only had three flags,” Mike said.

“Meaning?”

Mike patted the dog. “Meaning, I’ll need more.”

Hunt stared at the wiry, leather-faced dog handler. His ears were drooping knots of cartilage, his nose long and hooked and ruddy. His lips hung with unnatural stillness, and Hunt knew that he was waiting for the question. “Are you saying that there are more bodies out there?”

Mike blew his nose into a bandanna. He nodded once, and the skin of his neck folded. “I think so.”

Hunt looked at Yoakum. “How long did Jarvis own this property?”

Yoakum’s face was bleak. “Twenty-four years.”

“Jesus Christ.”

“What do you want me to do?” Yoakum asked.

Hunt looked up, saw leaves that moved and jagged cracks of blue. “Call it in. Get everybody out here.”

Yoakum stepped away and opened his phone. Mike honked his nose one last time, then shoved the bandanna back into a pocket. “What about me?” he asked.

“Work the dog,” Hunt said. “We’ll improvise some flags.”

“Yes, sir.” Mike made a motion with his hand and the dog moved without hesitation. Nose down, tail up, it set off in a straight, determined line.

Hunt felt a breeze on his neck.

The dump smell rose.

The sun was less than a hint behind the trees when Johnny nudged Jack with a foot. The fire was dead and gray, the blanket heavy with dew. “It’s time,” Johnny said.

Jack blinked up at Johnny, who was dressed and ready. He scratched at his neck. “I’m eaten alive.”

“Me, too.” Johnny held out a hand and pulled Jack to his feet. “Want some breakfast?”

“What do we have?”

“Canned sausage or peanut butter. We’re out of bread.”

“Any grape soda?”

“No.”

Jack shook his head. “I’m good.

Johnny knocked dirt off the blanket, then took a leak on the side of the tobacco barn. His hands were smudged with soot from the fire. He thought of sacred things that weren’t sacred after all, and of the gun tucked under his jacket. He’d sat up late, spinning the cylinder, tilting its barrel against the light. He’d rubbed a wet thumb on the site, aimed at the fire and tried to keep his arms steady under the weight of it. He thought of Levi Freemantle and told himself that he knew what he was doing, then decided that it didn’t really matter. In the end, only Jack had a choice.

“You don’t have to come.”

Jack shrugged on the jacket. “You’re my best friend.”

“I’m serious,” Johnny said.

“So am I.”

Johnny stuffed the blanket in the pack, then cinched up the straps. “Thanks, J-man.”

“Don’t go pussy on me.”

“I’m not. I’m just saying—”

“I know what you’re saying.

Johnny opened the truck door. “Ready?”

“Rock and roll.”

Johnny drove through the stubbled field and under the surrounding trees. Out of the woods, they passed through the same gate, then followed the two-lane north toward the county line. Johnny stuck to the roads that he knew, then cut east, through a trailer park, to an unfamiliar road that turned, in a slow bend, away from town and the clutter that surrounded it. They rode past small vineyards and stone walls, went deeper into open country still dotted with antebellum mansions perched above rolling fields. Once, he stopped. He compared the map in the book with a road map of Raven County. “Do you know where we are?” Jack asked.

But Johnny didn’t answer. He stared down the road, then doubled back to a stretch of old, cracked pavement that grew increasingly narrow. He checked road signs twice, then made a left onto a single-lane stretch of black that descended for a few miles until it turned hard right and ended at a gravel road. Johnny stopped. Except for crows on a wire, nothing around them moved. “You smell that?” Johnny asked.

“No.”

“The river. It bends east just outside of town, then cuts back. I think we’re about twelve miles north of town. Maybe a little east.” He pointed down the gravel road. “I think this is it.”

Jack looked around at the trees, the fields, the windswept silence. “You think this is what?”

“Let’s see.” Johnny turned right and the tires spit gravel. A half mile farther, he passed a shot-up yellow sign that read:
END OF STATE MAINTENANCE.
Immediately, the forest pushed in. The river smell intensified. The road turned north again. Johnny pointed right. “The river’s that way. We’re going parallel.” He drove for another mile and passed the first gate. It stood open, but the sign was unmistakable.
PRIVATE PROPERTY. NO TRESPASSING
.

Johnny ignored it.

The second gate was closed, but unlocked. It was age-stained aluminum, bowed in the middle as if backed into by a truck. It hung from a cedar post, and part of its lower edge pressed upon the road where it had buckled. “Get the gate.”

Jack got out of the truck and dragged it open. Grass bent beneath it at the road’s edge, and Johnny moved the truck through. Jack closed it after he’d passed.

They dropped into the flood plain, saw the river, black and oily slow, and Johnny pointed at a broad swath of flattened grass where the river had spilled over its banks in the last big storm. “It’s going to get swampy.”

The road bent away from the river, and swamp began to push in from both sides. The road rose a few feet, until it was a high strip above soft earth and dark water that flashed beyond gashes in the trees. Johnny rounded a bend and almost struck a snapping turtle that basked in the middle of the road. Its shell was two feet across, black with dried algae. He steered around it and it opened its hooked mouth as they passed.

The road dipped a final time, then rose onto a causeway that crossed a wide stretch of still water. They drove into the hollow place, then up onto the hump of earth. On either side, shallow water stretched away, its surface marred by fallen trees, half submerged, and tussocks of grass that broke the surface where the bottom rose. Across the causeway, dry land clawed from the swamp. It was an island of sorts, a mile of hardwoods and vine. Johnny stopped the truck. Ahead of them, gravel grew sparse, then nonexistent as the road turned into a tendon of rutted, black earth that crossed the bog and disappeared into forest. Giant limbs swept the ground and roots stretched the length of a man before plunging into the earth.

Johnny crossed the causeway, stopped in the last patch of sun and killed the engine. The air hung silent, then swamp sounds began to return. They started small and rose like notes from a flute. At the water’s edge, a heron stabbed its beak into the mud and came up empty. It stalked a few feet, then froze, one eye tilted at the water. The boys climbed out of the truck. Johnny saw the sign from ten feet out. Half-covered by honeysuckle and some other creeping vine, it seemed as old as everything else, weathered boards nailed to a tree. Johnny pulled off the vines. The words were carved into the wood beneath, deep cuts, black at the bottoms as if burned.

HUSH ARBOR, 1853.

“This is it.” Johnny stepped back.

“The place where they hanged those people.”

“That was a long time ago.”

“This is a death place, Johnny. We shouldn’t be here.”

“Don’t let your imagination get away from you.”

“It’s up and gone.”

Johnny ignored the comment for a long moment. Honeysuckle put a sugar scent in the air, and he put two fingers on the rough-cut letters. “Just a place,” Johnny lied. The heron speared a frog, tore it from the mud. “Just a place.”

Jack skimmed a rock and spread ripples in the tar-colored water. The heron took wing, frog still twitching in his beak. “Do you really think somebody lives out here?”

Johnny looked up, twisted his head. “No power lines. No phone lines. Maybe not.”

“That’s the best news I’ve heard all day.”

Johnny peered under the trees. He moved under the branches and felt the temperature drop. The canopy rose into a cathedral quiet.

“What about the truck?”

Johnny looked back. His friend clung to the sunlight, one hand on hot metal. “Too loud. We leave it.”

“Really?”

“Yeah.”

Jack stepped into shadow. “Quiet, now,” Johnny said. And the forest swallowed them up.

Cops descended on the Jarvis scene: city cops, the sheriff’s office. Someone mentioned the state police, but Hunt shot that down. In seventeen years, he’d seen nothing but conflict and disruption when too many fingers found their way into the pie. Keep it local. Keep it tight. But they had seven flags, now, too many for the local medical examiner. Dr. Moore approached Hunt with mournful eyes, all of his normal exuberance crushed. He wore latex gloves stained with dark matter. For most of two hours he’d worked his way through layers of earth on a single, flagged site. He’d found bone and teeth, some small bits of rotted cloth. Hunt kept everyone but Yoakum at a distance. They milled about on the edge, speaking in hushed tones as the sun climbed.

“Doc.” Hunt looked the question.

Moore shook his head, then mopped his face with a mud-stained handkerchief. “It’s a child,” he said. “Female. Nine to twelve years of age, I’d estimate.”

Hunt caught Yoakum’s eye. “How long?”

“How long ago did she die? Years. I can’t say for certain. Not yet.”

“Cause of death?”

The man compressed as he stood. His shoulders fell. His lips turned down. “There’s a hole in the skull.” He gestured at the curve of bone behind his right ear. “Too early to say more than that.”

“Gunshot?” Yoakum asked. “Blunt trauma?”

“Both. Neither. It’s too early.”

“And the other sites?”

Moore cast sad eyes at the flags. “I’ll need help. I’ve already called the chief medical examiner in Chapel Hill. He’s sending people.”

“What else can we do for you?” Hunt asked.

Moore tipped his head, indicating the police officers massed on the edge of the scene. “Get rid of them.”

“Are they in your way?”

“It’s not helpful.”

Hunt nodded. Moore was right. “I’ll make it happen.”

“Thanks.” Moore raised a hand, then trudged back to the shallow grave.

“Want me to do it?” Yoakum asked, staring at the Chief.

Hunt allowed a tight smile. “Don’t think I can handle him?”

“I think he’s looking for an excuse to fire you and bring in the state cops. That would keep it clean, take the pressure off him, the department.” Yoakum gestured at the field of flags. “No one could blame him. This is big, maybe too big to stay local. You’re his lead detective. Firing you could give him a legitimate excuse to wash his hands and bring in the SBI. Politics, Clyde. Ugly business. You should let me talk to him.”

“No,” Hunt pointed at the ME. “Stay here. Make sure he gets anything he needs.”

“Your funeral, brother.”

Hunt left Yoakum with the remains of their unknown victim and walked to the Chief. The man was rumpled and flushed. Here in the woods, on site and out of place, he looked even more like a politician than a cop. As Hunt approached, uniformed officers stepped aside so that an aisle opened. The Chief spoke before Hunt could.

“What did the ME say?”

Hunt looked from the Chief to the sheriff. Both men looked pinched, and Hunt guessed that his face bore the same expression. Memories of their last meeting still poisoned the air. “He said he wants these people out of here.”

“I’m talking about the body. What did he say about that?”

“Female. Nine to twelve years old. Time and manner of death as yet undetermined.”

“Is it Alyssa Merrimon?”

Hunt looked at the sheriff and shook his head. “This one has been in the ground for years.”

The Chief peered across the swale. Skin folded at the bottoms of his eyes pulled back to show bright pink crescents. “Six more out there. Maybe we’ll get lucky.”

“I wouldn’t call that lucky,” Hunt said.

The sheriff’s lips turned at the corners. “You still think you’ll find her alive?”

Hunt returned the hard stare. “Maybe.”

The sheriff said, “You’re such a Boy Scout, Hunt. I swear to God.”

“I’ve had enough of your cr—”

“That’s enough,” the Chief said. “From both of you.”

Hunt forced the tension from his frame. “You’ll let me clear these people out of here?”

The Chief nodded. “Keep whoever you need, send the rest home.”

“I don’t need anybody from the sheriff’s office.”

Hunt waited for a reaction from the sheriff. Jarvis’s house was inside the city limit, but out here, in the deep woods, they were pretty much standing on the city line. If he wanted to push a jurisdiction claim, he could. The sheriff broke first. “Perkins.” He snapped his fingers and an unfamiliar deputy crossed to his side. “Round our people up. Get them out of here.” He smiled at Hunt, rocked the hat back on his head, and spoke in a low voice. “When you fuck this up and are long gone, I’ll still be running this county.”

“Don’t count your chickens.”

Another cold smile. “Have a nice day, Detective.”

Hunt watched him go. The Chief was waiting when he turned, but his face showed none of the animosity Hunt expected. Instead, he looked deflated, troubled. He lifted the hat from his head and scrubbed the sleeve of his shirt across his forehead. He dipped his head toward the flags and spoke softly. “If those are all children…” He trailed off. “God help us.”

“Maybe he already did. Jarvis is dead.”

“Do you think Jarvis did this?” He nodded again at the flags. “All of this?”

Hunt watched Trenton Moore begin excavation on the second site. “Maybe.” A pause. “Maybe he had help.”

“You still believe there’s a cop involved?”

“You know about the dead cat? The threat warning Johnny Merrimon not to talk?”

“I do.”

“His mother says that before that happened, she came home from the hospital and saw a car parked near the house. Late at night. Engine running. He was just sitting there.”

“Hardly against the law.”

“There’s nothing out there. Some houses, a stretch of empty road. There is no legitimate reason for someone to be there. When she approached the car, it sped off. This was right after Johnny was identified in the Burton Jarvis story. His name was in every paper, on every channel. His picture, as you know. He would not have been hard to find.”