The Last Child (42 page)

The body bag on the ground seemed longer than the others.

More full.

Hunt walked over, stopped five feet from the bag, and squatted on his heels. He remembered Spencer Merrimon, the way he’d stayed strong for his wife, the way he tamped down the guilt and pretended that it wasn’t killing him from the inside out. Seems like he’d always had a hand on his son’s shoulder, a quiet word of thanks for the men working to bring his daughter home. Hunt had liked the man, maybe even respected him. “Is this him?”

Every eye turned to the bag. “We think so.”

“How can you tell?”

“Over here,” the Chief said.

Hunt stood and they all turned to the camp table. It was brushed metal, hinged in the middle. Gear cluttered the surface: laptops, a camera bag and tripod, a few notebooks, a box of latex gloves. A number of items were sealed in plastic evidence bags. The Chief pointed at a stained wallet. “This was in his pocket. It’s nylon with a Velcro seal. That helped preserve the contents.” Next to the wallet, the contents had been laid out, each in its own evidence bag. Driver’s license. Credit cards. A few grungy bills, some receipts. A claim check for the cleaners. Some papers, folded at one time, but open now. Hunt saw a photo of Katherine and the kids. It, too, was stained, but the faces were recognizable. Johnny looked shy, but Katherine was beaming. So was Alyssa. “Christ,” Hunt said.

“We’ll have the medical examiner run dental records to confirm, but I don’t see any reason to doubt that it’s him.”

“Doc?” Hunt looked at Trenton Moore.

“The body is male, age appropriate.”

Hunt looked out at the remaining flags, the men stooped above the half-exhumed body of some unnamed soul. It was now very likely that one of these bodies was Alyssa Merrimon. He turned back to the table and examined the items from the wallet. He looked through the receipts—meaningless—then came to two pieces of paper that had been folded so many times the creases were worn through. The first was a child’s drawing, stick figures of a man holding the hand of a child. “I Love my Daddy,” was written in an awkward hand. The bottom corner read, “Alyssa, age six.”

Hunt turned to the second page.

“Addresses,” Cross said. “We’ll check them when we get back to the station.”

Hunt saw nine addresses. The handwriting was bad, but legible. There were no names, no phone numbers. Addresses. But Hunt felt the cold tingle in the back of his skull that told him he’d been right about Spencer Merrimon. Why his body was here. Why he died, if not exactly how. Hunt knew the addresses. He knew the names that went with them.

Registered sex offenders
.

The bad ones
.

Cross gestured at the body bag. He was unshaven, lips turned down. “I thought this Merrimon guy ran off.”

“No.” Hunt placed the page on the table.

“I thought the wife blamed him so bad he skipped town.”

Hunt looked again across the field of shallow graves. He lifted the child’s drawing. The crayon was red. Lopsided hearts hung in the open spaces. “No,” he said again. “This man knocked on the wrong door.” A perfect silence, Hunt’s heart swelling with respect. “This man died looking for his daughter.”

Johnny stepped into the woods and felt suddenly drained. The change happened in seconds. He was confident and focused, then Jack and the barn fell away, and he found himself hungry and tired, strangely disoriented. He walked a trail that turned in unexpected places, that seemed steep when it should be flat. It was the right trail, but looked wrong. Johnny felt hot, then cold. Tree branches scraped and the creek ran fast. He slipped twice in mud, then stooped at the edge of the water. He dipped his hands and held them, wet, to his face.

He felt better when he stood.

The house winked dirty paint beyond the trees.

Detective Hunt was halfway up the slope when his cell phone rang. It was Officer Taylor, who spoke as he hiked. She told him about Ken Holloway: the damage done to his piano, the physical abuse of his cleaning lady. “That’s the piano Johnny hit with the rock, right?”

“Yes.”

“Well, it’s ruined now.”

Hunt was breathing hard, the air close and damp, pressure on his lungs. “How about the cleaning lady? Is she severely injured?”

“No,” Taylor said. “And it’s a miracle. You should see this place.”

“Bad?”

“The guy’s off his rocker. Booze and coke, looks like. He called his cleaning lady Katherine.”

“And?”

“That’s not her name.”

“Oh, crap.”

“Exactly.”

“Add an assault charge and get it on the wire, ASAP. Let’s find him before he hurts somebody else. And do me a favor, call Katherine Merrimon and tell her to get out of the house. Tell her to drive to the station. I’ll meet her there. Tell her I need to talk to her. Tell her it’s important.”

“That’s the thing.”

“What?”

“I already tried.”

Hunt felt it coming.

“No answer at her house.”

Johnny stepped out of the woods and onto the old piece of roofing tin that lay in the backyard. The metal was cooked under his feet, so hot he could feel it through the rubber soles of his shoes. He stepped off and the metal made a dull popping noise. Approaching the back of the house, he checked the windows. His room was empty, window locked. Same with his mother’s room. It was dark, the bed a tangle of sheets. He saw the hallway through her open door, dim light, battered Sheetrock. He ducked around the corner, moved for the front.

Ken’s Escalade was in the yard. Not in the driveway, but in the yard. He’d run over the line of stunted bushes and glanced off the yard’s single tree. The front fender was folded, two feet of paint peeled from the side of the vehicle. The driver’s door stood open; the right tire touched the bottom step of the porch.

Johnny put his hand on the hood. Still hot.

The house was shut tight, but he heard it plain enough: a scream.

His mother.

Johnny took the steps two at a time.

Jack had his small hand on the barrel, good one on the grip. He watched Freemantle, who stretched across the floor, shifting in his sleep, muttering under his breath as his chest rose and fell. He was a dark lump in the still, hot air.

A killer, afraid of crows.

A crazy man, talking in his sleep.

God knows
.

Even asleep, he wouldn’t stop saying it.

Jack pressed warm steel against his cheek. Where was Johnny? Why wasn’t he back?

God knows
.

He wouldn’t stop saying it.

Johnny’s hand found the knob and it twisted as the door was yanked open from the inside. The force was unexpected and immense. It pulled Johnny across the threshold and into the room. He saw his mother on the floor, hands pinned behind her back with twists of wire. She called his name, then Holloway caught him by the throat. He had a big hand, thick fingers. Johnny couldn’t breathe. He couldn’t speak.

Holloway kicked the door shut, then dragged Johnny across the room as he yanked curtains closed. Johnny pulled at the fingers. His face went hot, and pressure built in his eyes. His mother called his name again. Holloway lifted him off the ground and Johnny saw the hatred. “Got you now, you little shit.”

The big hand drew back, rushed in, and Johnny’s world blinked out. When his vision cleared, Holloway dropped him. He rolled onto his chest, saw a slice of carpet, Holloway’s perfectly shined shoes.

His mother screamed again.

Levi stood at the river’s edge. His momma was fresh buried, the dirt of her grave still under his nails, and in the deep, calloused lines that cut the palms of his hands. He was soaked with sweat, hot from digging and grief, hot from the burns beneath the gauze on his face. He’d walked into town the day before and ordered the stone that would sit above her
.

Creola Freemantle, it would read
.

God Knows the Beauty of Her Soul
.

Levi studied the dirt on his hands. It was God’s dirt, black and rich. Hush Arbor dirt. Family dirt. He rubbed his fingers together, then stepped into the water. It rose cool to his knees, then to his chest
.

“God knows,” he said
.

And the water bore him up
.

Levi sat up in the barn. The gun was leveled at his face, and the boy behind it was scared. He looked familiar, but Levi wasn’t seeing too good. The world was fuzzy, tilted. He saw white skin and wild hair. Eyes that jittered.

Levi didn’t know where he was, but he felt the change like he knew it was coming. He felt the air pile up above him, the coolness of it pressing down. Then the voice filled him up.
One last thing
, it said; and Levi’s teeth shone white in the gloom.

He stood, and the pain became a distant thing.

The pain became a memory.

Jack drove his feet against the floor, pushed himself back into the wall. The man’s eyes held an insane light, and all Jack could think of were the two people he’d killed. Blood, like paint, Johnny had said.

Like paint.

Jack held the gun straight out and it shook. He couldn’t help it. He was saying his own prayer:
Don’t make me kill him, don’t make me kill him…

But Freemantle made no move to hurt him. “Past that big rock, between those trees.” The words came thick and slow. “Hop a creek and you’ll see it.” He showed ivory eyes shot with red, then limped outside. He leaned back in the door, said one last thing to Jack, and then the door was empty.

For long seconds, Jack could not move, too stunned and afraid to even think straight. When he managed to step outside, it was in time to see Freemantle stop at the edge of the woods. Scarred and standing crooked, he wore no shoes, no shirt, and his muscles twitched and rolled under skin streaked with blood and filth. One hand was swollen near to ruin and six inches of black, jagged wood stuck out of the grasping wound in his side. But Freemantle seemed oblivious. He turned back and his head tilted, good eye up and staring. Jack followed his gaze and felt a door open to some cold place in his chest.

The sun burned high in a faultless sky.

The roof was black with crows.

His mother’s voice still rang in Johnny’s ears when the oiled leather arced in. He felt Holloway’s foot in the small of his back, and then on his arm. Johnny curled into a ball, trying to protect himself, but Holloway kicked him again, and while he did, he was talking: “No one messes with Ken Holloway.”

He grabbed Johnny by the hair.

“Don’t go anywhere.”

He pushed Johnny back down then disappeared into the hallway, into Johnny’s room. There was a scraping sound, something heavy; and when he came back, he held the lead pipe that Johnny kept under his bed.

“You think I didn’t know about this? This is my house.” He struck Johnny again, lead pipe on the meaty part of Johnny’s leg. “My house,” he said. “No one messes with me in my own fucking house.”

Ken straightened and Johnny watched him. He crossed the room, lifted a roll of silver tape from the table and tore off a ten-inch stretch. He held Johnny’s mother by the hair, and she fought as he slapped the tape over her mouth. “Should have done that a week ago,” he said. Then he ignored her. The mirror was on the television. Ken picked up a rolled bill, pinched a nostril and snorted two lines off the mirror. When he turned, his eyes were huge and black.

“Where’s your daddy, now?”

Holloway crossed the room, pipe up, and Johnny kicked him in the shin, then in the kneecap.

His mother thrashed as Ken hefted the pipe.

Johnny screamed.

And then the front door exploded. It slammed back, loose on its hinges, and Levi Freemantle filled the frame. Yellow eyes shot with red, breathing hard, his shoulders were so wide they touched wood on either side. He looked at the raised pipe, then stepped over the threshold. Holloway shrunk in his shadow, stepped backward, and his perfect shoe touched Johnny’s ribs.

Freemantle moved into the room and the smell of him filled the air. There was no limp in his step, no hesitation. “The little ones are gifts,” he said, and Holloway swung the pipe as the giant man came for him. But as tall as Ken stood, he was a child to Freemantle.

Just like a child.

Freemantle caught the pipe with one hand, twisted it away, and brought it from the hip in a backhand blow that drove eight pounds of lead into Holloway’s throat. Holloway staggered once, then dropped to his knees in front of Johnny. His hands rose to his neck, and when he fell, their eyes were mere inches apart. Johnny watched him try to breathe, and knew what he was feeling. He saw the awareness rise, the certainty, and then the terror. Holloway clawed at his ruined throat. His heels drummed the wall, the floor, and then fell still. The last light was pulled from his eyes, and in its place rose a shadow, a flicker, a reflection of wings.

Hunt braked the car, cut the wheel right and felt the end drift. The car was heavy, still going fast. It slid in gravel, then shuddered across washboard dirt. Hunt took in the Escalade with its crushed fender, the front door standing wide, the darkness beyond it. He racked the transmission into park and hit the yard at a dead run, weapon out and hot. Ten feet from the door, a hot wind touched his face. Shadows flitted across the ground.

Hunt broke the plane of the door and saw Katherine, bound on the floor. Silver tape covered her mouth, and she was sucking hard through her nose. Johnny lay on the ground, filthy, bleached of color. He was bleeding, too, bruised, and the look on his face was one of pure terror. Holloway was a sack of bones beside him, either dead or close to it. Freemantle stood above them, two feet of metal pipe in his hand. Torn and bloody and fierce, he looked like a desperate man, like a killer. For Hunt, the math was easy.