The Last Child (46 page)

Jack ground at his eyes. Small hand. Normal hand. Both of them balled and shaking. “He said he wanted to scare her.”

“Who?”

“It was supposed to be a joke.”

“Gerald?” Johnny asked.

“She was pedaling so hard.”

“Oh, no.”

“Right on the edge of the pavement.” A pause. “He just wanted to scare her.”

“What happened, Jack?”

“He was drinking.”

Johnny grabbed Jack by the shirt. He pulled and it tore. “What the fuck happened?”

“She looked back, and I guess it was the headlights, the closeness. I don’t know. She lost it. Went down. She went under the truck. Gerald freaked. He called my father.” Jack was crying. “She was dead, Johnny.”

“I don’t understand.”

“Dead and gone. I wanted to tell, but Gerald was already being scouted by the pros.”

“What does that have to do with anything?”

“Dad said if word got out, he could kiss all that goodbye.”

“You lied because of Gerald’s baseball career.” Johnny was yelling, Jack shaking his head. “Then what?” Johnny said. “What?”

“I wanted to tell.”

“But you didn’t.”

Jack was crying softly now. “Johnny.”

“All this time.”

Jack stood and staggered. He put out a hand, but Johnny knocked it down. “I tried.”

“How did you try?”

“You remember I told you that Gerald broke my arm?” Jack was shaking, begging with his eyes. “It was my dad, Johnny. I told him I was going to tell and he broke my arm. He broke my arm in four places. He held me on the ground and made me swear.” Jack got a hand on Johnny’s arm. “He made me swear.”

“Because of Gerald’s career?”

“It’s all they talk about.” Johnny stared. “Gerald and my dad.”

Johnny felt his stomach clench. He bent at the waist and turned away. His hand found a branch and he leaned against it. “You said Levi Freemantle told you where she was.”

“Another lie.”

“Then why now, Jack? Why tell now?”

“Because Freemantle was sent here for a reason.”

“What reason?”

Jack was terrified. “God knows.”

No crows,
Johnny thought.
God knows.

“He kept saying it. Even in his sleep, he said it. No crows. God knows. You remember the name of the mine shaft? No Croz. I can’t get it out of my head, Johnny. God knows, don’t you see? God knows what I did.” Jack broke off. “The last thing Freemantle said to me… the last thing he said… Oh, shit.”

“What?”

Jack sat down on the stone. “God knows the beauty of her soul.” Jack raised his small hand. “I’m going to burn in hell, Johnny.” The hand came down, and Jack was begging. “If somebody asked, would you say something good?”

He was weeping.

“Johnny?”

Johnny turned and climbed up the bank. Jack’s voice followed him, small, then smaller.

“Johnny?”

Nothing. Wind in the grass.

“Johnny?”

Hunt drove fast, blue lights hot behind the grille. Yoakum, beside him, was iron-faced. The dashboard clock read ten after one in the morning. Hunt had arranged an emergency meeting with the district attorney and the magistrate. It took an hour, but he had an arrest warrant in his coat pocket and two hand-picked uniforms rolling backup. Nobody else knew. Not the Chief. No other cops. They were running this thing dark, just in case Cross had friends who would go to the mat. “Five minutes,” Hunt said.

For the third time, Yoakum checked the loads in his borrowed gun.

Hunt’s phone rang. He glanced at caller ID then answered. The call was brief, and when it was over, he did not look at Yoakum. “Medical examiner,” he said. “Dental records match. It’s Alyssa.”

Silence. Rubber on pavement.

“I’m sorry, Clyde.”

“Four minutes.”

Thirty seconds later, Hunt’s phone rang again. He didn’t recognize the number on ID, but he answered it, then listened. “Where are you, Johnny? Settle down. I’m here. No. No. Take your time.”

Hunt listened for a full minute, saying nothing. When the kid was finished, the last piece clicked into place and Hunt had the picture. All of it. A perfect fit. “Okay, Johnny. I’ve got it and I will handle it. No, I will handle it tonight. Right now. Where are you?” A pause. “No. I don’t want you in the lobby. I want you in the room, now. I have it covered. We’ll talk tomorrow.”

He hung up again and Yoakum waited ten seconds. “What?”

Hunt gave it to him in short, hard sentences. The way Alyssa died. How she ended up in that shaft.

Yoakum had to chew on it for a minute. “She died in an accident?”

“Gerald was drunk. Cross hid the body to protect his son. He dumped her in that shaft. All alone.” He sucked in a deep breath. “Jesus.”

“You okay?”

“We bring Gerald in, too.”

“We don’t have a warrant for Gerald.”

“Suspicion of manslaughter. It’s enough to question him.”

“That Johnny’s a tough kid,” Yoakum said.

“Yes.”

“Cross is so going down.”

“One minute.”

Hunt turned into Cross’s neighborhood.

Johnny opened the motel room with the key card. Two lamps burned. His mother sat on the edge of the nearest bed. She was drawn but clear-eyed.

“I couldn’t call Hunt,” she said, and stood. “He would never let me have you back.”

Johnny stepped in and closed the door.

“You left me,” she said, and Johnny saw how rigid she held herself.

“I will never do it again.”

“How can I believe that?”

“I promise.”

She crossed the room and put her arms around him. “Promise me again.”

Johnny smelled soap and clean hair. “I promise.”

She squeezed him hard, and when she stepped back, Johnny told her what he knew. It wasn’t easy, and it took some time. Alyssa was dead, but it was an accident. He explained it twice, and the words rolled off her lips.

An accident.

They were quiet for a long time after that.

Quiet but together.

Hunt got the domestic disturbance call when they were two blocks out. “Be advised, neighbor reports a weapon at the scene.”

“Shit.”

Hunt hit the siren and the patrol car behind him did the same. Two quick turns and Cross’s house was up on the right. Lights burned at the roofline, big spots on the corners, lights on poles by the sidewalk. The white truck was nose-first and crumpled against the side of the house. Grass was torn up behind it, shrubbery plowed flat. One taillight blinked on and off. Red. Red. Red. Detective Cross was in the yard; so was his wife and Gerald. Cross was yelling. His wife was on her knees, Bible in hand, clenched in prayer.

Jack had the pistol.

He was pointing it at his father.

Hunt and Yoakum came out of the car the same time as the uniformed officers. Weapons came out. “Control your fire,” Hunt said. “I know the kid. I don’t want him hurt.”

The other cops heard him, but the guns stayed up. Hunt kept his own weapon in the holster. He eased onto the grass, hands out to his side. Jack was flushed and shaking. Tears stained his face. Cross was playing the stern father. “Jack, you give me that gun right now! Right this minute! I mean it!” Cross saw Hunt coming and held out one hand. “I’ve got this,” he said. “It’s under control.” Back to his son. “Jack, you see this? Somebody called the police. It’s time for this to end. Give me the gun.”

Behind him, Jack’s mother was rocking on her knees. Jack looked at her, and one hand found a silver cross that hung around his neck. Her voice rose and it was like she was speaking in tongues. “Don’t, Momma.” Jack’s face twisted. “Just don’t.” He tore off the cross and flung it at her.

“Give me the gun, Jack.”

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.