The Last Child (38 page)

Yoakum was rough, unshaven; a cigarette hung at the edge of his mouth. He took a drag and flicked it through the fence as Hunt stepped into the warming air and walked the last twenty feet.

“Morning, John.” Hunt was neutral, guarded. Their friendship was an understood thing, and this doubt between them was untouched ground.

“Clyde.” Yoakum fished out another smoke, ran it between his fingers. He did not light it, and had trouble looking Hunt square in the face. He put his eyes on the roofline of the police station, then on the shoes that still showed traces of mud from the field behind Meechum’s house.

Hunt waited.

“About last night,” Yoakum began. “I was drunk. I was wrong.”

Hunt kept his face immobile. “Just like that?”

Yoakum sparked the cigarette. “I was not myself.”

Steel eyes. Doubt. Hunt said nothing, and Yoakum changed the subject. “You see this?” He lifted a stack of folded newspapers from the barrier on which he sat.

“Bad?”

Yoakum shrugged, handed over the papers. Hunt flicked through them. The headlines were sensational. There were photos of the medical examiner’s vehicles framed by the deep and secret woods, photos of thin body bags being loaded through wide double doors. Reporters speculated on body count, hinted at police incompetence. They spoke of a security guard, shot dead by an unnamed cop. They recapped the story of how Tiffany Shore had been found, and they all asked the same question:
Where is Johnny Merrimon?

“They know that we have an all-points out on Johnny.” Hunt shook his head.

“Kid’s a damn hero.”

There was something in Yoakum’s voice, and Hunt could not decide if it was bitterness or just another hangover. “The kid’s missing.”

“I didn’t mean anything bad by that.” Yoakum gestured at the papers. “Just that we come off like idiots.”

“Occupational hazard these days.”

“No shit.”

“They’re already stacked up out front. A dozen trucks. You see them?”

“They don’t have my name yet.” He was talking about Meechum, about the shooting. “You couldn’t pay me to go in through the front door.”

Hunt didn’t blame him. The story would grow. Yoakum would be chewed up in the process. “They’ll have it soon enough,” he said.

Yoakum nodded, looked at the back of the station, a concrete wall stained with moisture. “Let’s get this over with.”

They crossed the lot together, but a tension remained between them, an awareness of the late night phone call, of things said and unsaid. At the door, Yoakum stopped. “Last night, Clyde.” He looked embarrassed. “I was in a dark place. You understand?” Hunt started to speak, but Yoakum cut him off, opened the door, and edged a shoulder inside. “You do what you have to do,” he said, then turned away.

Inside, an energy charged the air; Hunt saw it in the brisk movements, the eyes that danced their way. Yoakum was treated like a hero. Handshakes. Back slaps. Cops hated pedophiles, and Meechum’s house had yielded a trove of damning evidence, the most frightening of which was a thick sheaf of photographs taken by the mall’s surveillance cameras. The girls ranged in age from ten to fifteen, fresh-faced and awkward. Pictures showed them sitting in the food court, riding the escalators. Meechum had made bold notations in black marker:
Rachel, Jane, Christine
. He was uncertain of some of the names. Those had question marks:
Carly? Simone? April?

Some photos had addresses noted on the low corners. They lived on quiet streets, family streets. Other photographs had ages scratched in dark marker, beneath the names, the faces:
Rachel, 12. Christine, 11
. They’d come from the locked bottom drawer of Meechum’s desk, and had made Hunt sick, when he saw them, sick and furious. More than that—the sight had made him murderous. Right or wrong, killing the bastard had been a good thing. There was, in fact, a certain beauty in how the case had unfolded. Burton Jarvis died in the street, half naked and begging for his life, put down by one of his victims. Meechum was gunned down in his own home, shot through the heart by one of the department’s most senior detectives.

Beauty.

Justice.

Most of the cops were smiling, but not the Chief. The Chief was bleached out, with bright spots of scarlet in the center of his meaty cheeks. He stood in the door to his office, looking out. Seven fifteen in the morning, and he was already stained with sweat. Behind him, shadows moved. Hunt saw men in the Chief’s office. Strange men in dark suits. Men who looked like cops.

“Five minutes,” the Chief said, then closed the door.

“We’re going early,” Hunt said.

Yoakum rolled his shoulders. “I’m catching a smoke.”

Detective Cross watched Yoakum thread through the crowded room, then rose from his desk and approached Hunt. “Can I talk to you in private?”

Hunt led Cross to his office and closed the door. Cross was ragged, his shirt coffee-stained and wrinkled. He’d failed to shave, and Hunt noticed that most of his whiskers were coming in white. “What’s on your mind?”

“Any word on the Merrimon kid?”

“We’re hopeful.”

“But not yet?”

“Is there a problem?” Hunt asked.

“My son, Jack. I can’t find him.”

“What does that mean, you can’t find him?”

Cross ran thick fingers across the brush of his hair. “We had a fight. He snuck out of the house.”

“When?”

“Last night.” A pause. “Maybe two nights ago.”

“Maybe?”

“I’m not sure about the first night. Maybe he left then, maybe it was the next morning. I was out of the house early and didn’t see him. With everything in the papers, you know, my wife’s worried. More than she might otherwise be. She doesn’t handle worry very well.”

“She’s worried, but you’re not.”

Cross fidgeted, and it was clear to Hunt that he was more than worried. He was genuinely frightened. “Do you know my wife, Detective?”

“I met her some years ago.”

Cross’s head moved. “She’s a changed woman. The last few years…” He paused, struggling. “She’s become very religious. She’s been at the church for most of the past thirty hours, not really eating or sleeping, just praying, mostly for Jack. She’s worried that he may be out with the Merrimon kid. If I could tell her that he’s not—”

“Why is
that
her worry? Why Johnny?”

Cross cast a concerned gaze across the room. He lowered his voice. “She claims to see a darkness on Johnny’s soul. A stain.” He cringed as he said it, apologetic. “I know, I know; but there it is. She thinks that Johnny is bad for Jack. She’s more worried about that than anything else. She’s not right, you understand.” He squinted, tilted his head. “She’s struggling.”

“I’m sorry to hear it.” Hunt paused. “Are
you
worried about Jack?”

“Ah, he’s done this kind of stuff before. Normal teenage junk. But two nights, if it is two nights… That’s unusual.”

“What was the fight about?”

“Jack worships that Merrimon kid. I mean, truly. Like a brother. Like a saint, even. I can’t break him of it.”

“And that’s why you fought?”

“Jack’s a weak kid, more like his mother than his brother. He’s frightened and easily led. My wife’s irrationality aside, Johnny
is
a bad influence. A rule breaker. Damaged, you know. I told Jack to stay away from him.”

“Johnny’s a good boy, but he’s been pulled apart by all of this.”

“Exactly. He’s fucked up.”

“He’s traumatized.”

“That’s what I said.”

Hunt buried his frustration. Not everyone saw Johnny the way he did. “What can I do for you, Cross? You want Jack’s name added to the all-points?”

“No. God, no. Just let me know if you hear anything. His mother is upset, not thinking straight. She blames me. The sooner I can tell her that he’s okay…”

“I understand.”

“Thanks, Hunt. I owe you.”

Cross left. Hunt stood in the door and saw Yoakum come back inside. His face had lost none of the anger. He was barely into the room when the Chief’s door swung wide. “Hunt. Yoakum.”

The Chief preceded them through the door. He circled his desk but remained standing. Hunt stepped in first. To the right, he saw the two unknown men. Both were north of fifty, tall and square with lined, uncompromising faces. One had silver hair, the other brown. No fat between them. Big hands. Calluses. Badges hung on their belts. Guns. Hunt came farther into the room, got a closer look at the badges. State Bureau of Investigation. From the look of them, they were senior in the Bureau, professional, hard men.

Yoakum came in behind Hunt. He moved right, put himself between Hunt and the state cops. It was warm in the office, close. All five men were big men. All five knew that something was wrong. Problem was, some knew more than others.

The Chief made introductions. “Detectives Hunt, Yoakum. These are agents Barfield and Oliver—”

“Special agents,” Oliver corrected.

No one shook hands. On the desk lay copies of Hunt’s statement about yesterday’s shooting. Yoakum’s was there, too. “Special Agents Barfield and Oliver are from the Raleigh office. They were nice enough to come down early this morning.”

“This morning,” Barfield said, unsmiling. “That’s funny.”

“Why is that funny?” Hunt asked coldly.

“It was closer to last night than this morning,” Barfield said.

Hunt looked at the Chief. If they were here from Raleigh, they must have been on the road since before dawn. “Why are we talking to the SBI?”

“Just take it easy,” the Chief said. “All of you. We’re going to do this right.” He looked at his detectives. Hunt was leery. Yoakum looked bored. “I need your weapons.”

The words were quiet, but fell into the room like a grenade. They had power, those four words, the power to ruin lives, rain collateral damage. Nobody moved. The moment drew out until Yoakum broke the silence. “I beg your pardon?”

“I need your weapons.” The Chief put one finger on the desk. “And I need them now.”

“This is bullshit.” Yoakum could no longer feign disinterest.

“Just do it.” Hunt kept his eyes locked on the Chief, but drew his service weapon and placed it on the desk. Grudgingly, Yoakum followed suit. He watched the state cops, who remained flat-eyed and stoic. “Now what?”

The Chief took the weapons and put them on a credenza against the back wall. It was a telling moment. The guns were out of reach. Turning back, the Chief was clearly unhappy. “We’ve been over your statements,” he said. “All very proper. All very bloodless. But I need to know if it was a clean shoot.” He stared straight into Hunt’s eyes. “And I need you to tell me.”

Hunt felt Yoakum’s sudden attention. The room was silent. “This is all highly unusual.” Hunt looked from the state cops to the Chief. “This is not how it’s done.”

“Please.” The Chief’s voice was surprisingly soft.

Hunt tried to think clearly, to recall every detail of the shooting: how it happened, why it happened. But what came to him were feelings about John Yoakum. More than thirty years on the job. Four years of working side by side. They were partners, friends and colleagues.

And Meechum deserved to die.

The Chief waited, dull-faced and miserable, while Yoakum stared at a fixed point on the wall. “The shoot was clean,” Hunt said.

Stiffness bled out of Yoakum. A trace of smile touched his lips.

“You’re certain?” the Chief asked. “You have no question?”

“From where Yoakum stood, it looked as if Meechum was coming at me with an ax. He made a split-second decision. It was the right one.”

Special Agent Barfield spoke: “We still have to do this.”

“What’s he talking about?” Hunt asked.

The Chief shook his head, eyes briefly closed. Whatever the agent meant, Hunt could tell that the Chief agreed. “Detective Yoakum, I need to ask you to go with these officers.”

“What?” Yoakum’s anger popped.

“To Raleigh. They have some questions. Better that they’re not asked here.”

Yoakum took one step back. “I’m not going to Raleigh.”

Barfield held up his hands, fingers spread. “No reason we can’t do this quietly. Discreetly.”

“Why don’t you discreet my ass?” Yoakum said. “I’m not going anywhere until somebody tells me what’s going on.”

The Chief said, “These questions need to be asked by someone not affiliated with this department. I’ve invited the SBI to assist.”

“Spin control,” Hunt said in disgust.

The Chief shook his head. Barfield laid a hand on Yoakum’s shoulder. It was not a threatening move, not aggressive. Yoakum shrugged it off. “Don’t touch me.”

“Nobody’s arresting you.”

“Arresting me! What the—”

“Settle down, John.”

“Fuck you, Clyde. What questions?”

Barfield reached out with the same hand, stopped short of touching anything. He tilted his body, indicating the door. Yoakum knocked his hand away. “Not until I know what these questions are about.”

Barfield dropped his arm. “Your off-duty weapon is a Colt .45.” It was not a question.

“What of it?”

“Where is that weapon now?”

“That’s none of your business.”

“Detective Hunt recovered a .45 shell casing from the wreckage of David Wilson’s car.”

“So?”

Hunt risked a glance at the Chief. At the sight of his face, a hollow place opened in his stomach.

Barfield’s face showed no emotion. “It has your print on it. We’d like to talk to you about that.” Again Barfield raised an arm, indicating that Yoakum should precede him through the door. “We can keep this quiet.” But Yoakum swatted the hand away, a loud stinging blow; and suddenly, all was motion. “That’s it,” Barfield said. He and Oliver moved in unison. They seized Yoakum and forced him across the desk, facedown, right arm jack-hammered behind his back. Hunt stepped forward, hands up and reaching for the fabric of Oliver’s jacket. It was instinct, pure and simple.

“Stay out of it, Hunt.” Loud. Commanding.

Hunt looked at the Chief and froze, felt the rage in his face. Barfield was twisting the arm, cuffs out. Oliver had his full weight on Yoakum’s shoulder blades. Barfield slapped a cuff onto Yoakum’s wrist, and Yoakum fought it, a smear of blood on his top lip.