The Last Child (15 page)

They never saw him.

Few ever did.

The car smelled old and stale. Pushing against the stiff leather of the seat, Johnny arched his back and shoved one hand into his pocket. The pages were crushed and rumpled, their scent reminiscent of pine resin and fire. He smoothed them on his leg and turned on a flashlight. The names were in his handwriting, the addresses, too. Notes and dates were scratched into the margins.

Six men. Six addresses. Registered sex offenders. Bad men. They scared him, but less than a day had passed since Tiffany Shore was taken, and Johnny figured it was probably the same man who took Alyssa. These were the worst that Johnny had been able to find, and he’d looked hard. He knew their routines and their jobs, what shows they liked and what time they went to bed. If one was acting differently, Johnny would know.

He drove out the fear and put his fingers on the key. His eyes, in the mirror, showed red lines and blackened lids.
He was untouchable
, he told himself,
a warrior
.

The engine turned, and he put the car in gear.

He was an Indian chief
.

Hunt called Yoakum from the car. It was the dead of night, roads empty and scrubbed by the rain.

The phone rang twice. A third time.

After his brief moment of weakness, Hunt had forced down his thoughts of Katherine Merrimon. He’d spent less than a minute standing in her yard, but Hunt felt his guilt. Tiffany was still missing, so he focused all of his energy on the case: questions posed, actions taken. What were they missing? What more could be done?

The phone rang again.

Come on, Yoakum
.

When Yoakum answered, he apologized. “It’s crazy down here.” He meant the police station.

“Tell me what’s happening.”

“We’re doing the things you told us to do.”

“Run it for me.”

“The print we lifted from David Wilson’s eyelid is in the system. No hits yet, but it’s early. We have four cars combing the back roads for Wilson’s Land Cruiser, which is, as you guessed, registered to the college. We’re working up a list of Wilson’s friends and relatives, anyone who might be able to tell us where he was today, what he was doing. We’ve already canvassed his colleagues at the college, but they’re useless. There’s a handful of known offenders that we’ve been unable to locate, but we have units on that. Two that we’re looking for seem to be out of town. Houses locked up and dark. Newspapers stacked up out front. I’ve been told that one is in lockup in Wilmington, and should have confirmation on that soon. Two auxiliary officers are working up the search grid for the morning—”

“About the grid.”

“Like you said. We’re going to run the same search pattern we did for Alyssa Merrimon. Logical then, logical now. We just need the manpower.” Yoakum paused. “Look, Clyde. You know all of this. You gave the orders. Why don’t you go home and get some sleep. It’s what? Like two in the morning? Have you checked on your kid, yet?”

Silence.

“Jesus, Hunt. Did you even call him?”

“I’m on my way to you,” Hunt said.

“This is me talking as your friend, okay? You should go home. Get some sleep.”

“Is that a joke?”

“No, actually. It’s not. You were ragged this morning and I doubt you’re any better now. What’s going on down here, this is grunt work. We don’t need you for this, so get some sleep. I need you sharp tomorrow. Tiffany needs you sharp.”

Hunt listened to the tires on pavement. Trees flashed, black, at the edge of his headlights. “Maybe for an hour,” he said.

“Maybe two,” Yoakum replied. “Hell. Get crazy and go for three. I’ll call if anything breaks.”

“Okay. Fair enough.” Hunt was about to disconnect when Yoakum said, “Look, Clyde. You’re good at this. The job, I mean. But you need to keep it together.”

“What are you saying?”

Yoakum exhaled, and the sound spoke volumes. “Just keep it tight, brother.”

Yoakum hung up and Hunt turned the car for home. He knew that he would never sleep, but knew, too, that Yoakum was right. He should try. And his son…

Damn.

That was a whole different matter.

He parked in the drive and switched off the engine. The neighborhood was quiet, so he heard the music before he opened the door to his house. A muted throbbing. The wail of heavy strings. He let himself in and went upstairs, the wallpaper pale and slick against his shoulder. At his son’s door, he knocked, doubting that it would be heard over the music. Eventually, he opened the door.

His first impression was that of pale skin and little motion, a flash of white blond hair and eyes that looked too much like his own. The boy would be eighteen in two weeks. He was big, athletic. He’d been a good student for most of his life. A good kid. But that had changed over the past year. He was disrespectful, intolerant. He sat on the edge of the bed, wearing gym socks, yellow shorts, and a shirt that read
CANDY IS DANDY BUT SEX WON’T ROT YOUR TEETH
. He held a car magazine and thumped his foot as the music screamed.

Hunt crossed the room and turned off the stereo. His son looked up, and in that instant Hunt saw what could easily pass for hatred.

“Can’t you knock?”

“I did.”

He turned a page, eyes back on the magazine. “What do you want?”

“You know what happened today?”

“Yeah. I heard. But not from you, thanks. I heard like everybody else did.”

Hunt stepped farther into the room. “Were you out there? At the river?” Silence from his son. Another page turned. “Did you ditch again? We’ve talked about this.”

“Just leave me alone.”

Hunt was looking at a stranger.

“I said, leave me alone.”

Hunt hesitated, and his son stood. Muscles twitched and rolled under his skin. For an instant, Hunt felt his own hackles rise. There was such naked challenge in the boy’s posture. But that impression lasted for little more than a few seconds. Hunt blinked and saw his son the way he’d been not very long ago. A gawky kid, full of curiosity and innocent enthusiasms. A kid who rose at six to make his own breakfast, built kites from balsa and packing paper. Hunt relaxed his posture. “I’ll be downstairs. We need to talk, so take a few minutes and think about what you want to tell me.”

His son ignored him. He crossed the room and started music that followed Hunt all the way down to the kitchen.

Hunt sat on a chair by the kitchen table and called Yoakum. “Any changes?”

“Didn’t we just talk?”

“Yes. And I want to know if anything has changed since then.”

“Nothing. How’s the kid?”

Hunt reached for a bottle of scotch. “I think he wants to kill me.”

“Does he need an alibi? Tell him to call me.”

Hunt sloshed two fingers into a glass, sat back down. “What he needs is his mother. I can’t relate to him anymore.” Hunt took a sip. “He should have gone with her.”

“The kid didn’t have a choice, Clyde. She left and I don’t recall her giving him an invitation to join.”

“I could have forced the issue,” Hunt said.

“He’ll pull out of it.”

“He’s listening to grunge and ready to throw down with his own father.”

“Grunge. Wow. Somebody call the evening news.”

“Ha-ha.” It was not a laugh.

“Stay home,” Yoakum said. “Take care of the kid.”

“The clock’s ticking, John. I’ll be there in ten.”

“Don’t do this again.”

“Do what?” Hunt heard the anger in his voice. Yoakum heard it, too.

“Haven’t you lost enough, Clyde? Truly.”

“What do you mean by that?”

“For God’s sake, man. Put your own kid first for a change.”

Hunt wanted to respond. He wanted to say something fierce and scathing, but Yoakum slammed the phone down. Hunt laid the receiver back on its cradle, took another sip of scotch, then poured the rest of it in the sink. Yoakum was trying to do right. Hunt understood that, so he dipped his head and thought about the real problem. He was addicted to his job, but that was not the whole of it. In the still and dark of the kitchen, Hunt admitted, for once, that he did not much like his own son. He loved him, of course, but he did not like him. Not his attitudes, his beliefs, or his choices.

The boy had changed.

Hunt rinsed out his glass, and when he turned, Allen was standing in the door. They held stares, and the boy was the first to look away. “So I ditched. So what?”

“For starters, it’s against the law.”

“Can you ever just turn it off?” He slid a hand along the arm of his chair. “Why do you have to be a cop all the time? Why can’t you just be a normal dad?”

“Normal dads don’t care if their kids ditch school?”

Allen turned his head. “You know what I mean.”

“A man was killed out at the bridge. You know that. Killed right where you’d been.”

“Hours after I was there.”

“What if something had happened to you? How am I supposed to tell your mom if anything bad ever happens to you?”

“Well, nothing did, so you’re off the hook.”

“You saw Johnny Merrimon out there? Jack Cross?”

“You know I did, or you wouldn’t be asking. That’s what cops do, right? That’s how they interrogate their suspects.”

“Other than today, do you ever see Johnny Merrimon?”

“He’s in junior high. I’m a senior.”

“I know,” Hunt said. “But do you ever see him around? Do you ever talk to him?”

“No one talks to him. He’s a freak.”

Hunt straightened, a coal of anger in the hollow place behind his eyes. “He’s a freak how?”

“He never talks, you know; and he’s got those dead eyes.” Allen rolled his shoulders. “He’s messed up. I mean, twins, you know. How do you get over something like that?”

“What about Tiffany Shore?” Hunt asked. “You know her?”

The boy’s head came around, and his eyes were unforgiving. “It never stops with you, does it?”

“What?”

“The damn job.” His voice spiked. “The damn, fucking job!”

“Son—”

“I’m so sick of hearing about Alyssa and Johnny and what a terrible tragedy it all is. I’m sick of seeing you with that file, looking at her picture, going through it all night after night.” He shoved a finger toward Hunt’s study, where a copy of the Merrimon file had taken up permanent residence in the locked top drawer of his desk. “I’m sick of the way your eyes cloud up and you never hear
me
talking. I’m sick of hearing you up at three in the morning, pacing and muttering. Sick of your guilt and takeout food and doing my own laundry. Mom left because of your obsession.”

“Now, just a minute.”

“It’s the right word, isn’t it?”

“Your mother understood the demands of my job.”

“I’m not talking about the job. I’m talking about what you bring home every night. I’m talking about your obsession with Johnny’s mother.”

Hunt felt his heart accelerate.

“That’s why she left.”

“You’re wrong,” Hunt said.

“She left because you’re obsessed with that kid’s mom!”

Hunt stepped forward and realized that his right hand was fisted. His son saw it, too, and raised his own hands. His shoulders squared up, and Hunt realized that the kid was big enough to take him.

“You going to hit me?” Allen wiped the back of one fist across the side of his mouth. “Go ahead. Do it. I dare you.”

Hunt stepped back, uncurled his fingers. “Nobody’s hitting anybody.”

“That family is all you care about. Alyssa. Johnny. That woman. And now it’s Tiffany Shore, and it’s going to start all over again.”

“These kids—”

“I know all about these kids! It’s all I ever hear about! And it’s never going to stop.”

“It’s my job,” Hunt said.

“And I’m just your son.”

His voice was subdued, the words explosive. They stared at each other, father and son; then Hunt’s phone trilled in the silence. Caller ID showed that it was Yoakum. Hunt held up a finger. “I have to take this.” He opened the phone. “This had better be good.”

Yoakum was curt. “We made the print on David Wilson’s eyelid.”

“Positive identification?”

“Yeah, and it gets better.”

“How much better?”

“Like you would not believe.”

Hunt looked at his watch, then turned back to his son. He held his eyes and detested the words even as he spoke them. “I’ll be there in ten minutes.” He closed the phone, lifted a hand. “Allen—”

But his son had already turned. He pounded up the stairs and slammed his door. Hunt stared at the ceiling, cursed in a whisper, then left the house as the volume ramped up and his son played the same messed-up song.

The police station was on a side street downtown. Two stories, red brick, functional. Hunt blew through the station doors and found Yoakum on the second floor, bent over a city map. “Tell me,” Hunt said.

“The print is solid. Levi Freemantle. Forty-three years of age. Black male. Six foot five. Three hundred pounds.”

“Damn. I thought the kid was exaggerating.”

“No. He’s big.”

“Why does that name seem familiar?”

“Freemantle?” Yoakum leaned back in his chair. “Never heard it before tonight.”

“Do we have a photo?”

“Not from DMV. He has no driver’s license. Nor does he have a credit card or a bank account. Not that I can find.”

“David Wilson was run off the bridge by a car.”

“Maybe he has a license from another state. Maybe he just doesn’t give a shit.”

“What else do we know?” Hunt asked.

Yoakum rifled some papers. “He popped up on the radar a few years ago. Nothing before that. No arrests. No bank records or utilities or phone service. The guy was a ghost. He probably moved in from another jurisdiction. Since then, we have a number of arrests, a few convictions. He’s done time, but nothing serious. A month here. Two months there. But get this, he walked off of a work detail a week ago.”

“He’s an escaped prisoner? Why haven’t I heard about this?”

“It was in the paper last week, but buried on page nine. He’s low priority, a nonviolent offender. He was not considered a threat. Besides, it’s a county problem.”