The Last Child

  She raised her head. “I have to go.”

  “Fix me a drink.”

  “There’s nothing here.”

  “What?”

  “It’s gone. All of it.” She tried to move past him. He stopped her with one massive arm.

  “It’s late.” He ran a hand down the small of her back.

  “I can’t.”

  “I was in jail all night.” He gripped her arm. “That was Johnny’s fault, you know. Your son’s fault. If he hadn’t thrown that rock through my window …”

  “You don’t know that he did that.”

  “Did you just contradict me?”

  Pain flared in her arm. She looked down at his fingers. “Take your hand off me.”

  He laughed, and she felt him move against her, the press of his chest as he filled the doorway. He began to drive her back. “Let go,” she said. But he was pushing her into the house, his lips thin below unforgiving eyes. A sudden image of her son came to Katherine, his small chin in one still hand as he sat on the stoop and looked up the hill for some sign of his father’s return. She’d chastised him for it, but she felt it now, the hope he must have felt. Her gaze slid up from Ken’s arm and she looked up the same hill. She imagined the rise and fall of her husband’s truck, but the hill was empty, the road a stretch of silent black. Ken made the same raw sound in his throat, and when she looked up, she saw a smile cut his face. “Tomorrow,” he said. “Johnny. First thing.”

  She looked again to the hilltop, saw metal flash as a car rose at the crest. Her breath caught, then she recognized the car. “My cab,” she said.

  Ken stepped back as the cab began to slow. Katherine pulled her arm free, but felt him there, tall and thick and angry. “I have to go,” she said, then pushed past him and met the cab in the drive.

  “Katherine.” His smile was broad, and to anyone else might have seemed genuine. “We’ll talk tomorrow.”

  She threw herself into the cab, felt the seat on her back, smelled cigarettes, unwashed clothes and hair tonic. The driver had folded skin and a scar on his neck that was the color of damp pearl. “Where to?”

  Katherine kept her eyes on Ken Holloway.

  “Ma’am?”

  Ken kept his smile.

  “The hospital,” she said.

  The driver watched her in the mirror. She felt his eyes and met them. “Are you okay?” he asked.

  She was sweaty and shaking. “I’ll be fine,” she said.

  But she was wrong.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR

  Johnny stood with woods at his back, a narrow clearing before him. It was a scratch in a sea of trees, an imperfection; but from where Johnny stood, it was everything, a rolling thatch of green that bent to a silent breeze.

  His sister stared at him from the center of the glade. She raised her hand, and Johnny found himself walking, grass at his ankles, then at his knees. Alyssa looked as she had the last time he’d seen her: pale yellow shorts, a white top. Her hair was as black as ink, her skin very tan. She kept one hand behind her back, and tilted her head so that strands of black fell across her eyes. She stood on a piece of rusted tin that pressed the grass flat. Johnny could smell the crushed-grass smell, the summer ripeness.

  The snake curled at her feet. It was the copperhead he’d killed. Five feet long, brown and gold and silent. It tasted the air with its tongue, and when Johnny stopped, it raised its head.

  Johnny remembered how it struck at him on the day he’d killed it. How close it had come.

  Inches.

  Maybe less.

  Alyssa stooped for the snake, and her fingers closed around its midsection. The tail wrapped her wrist. The head rose higher as she straightened, and the snake met her gaze. Its tongue flicked out. “This is not strength,” she said.

  The snake struck her in the face, and when it withdrew, two holes appeared, followed by dots of blood that looked like small, perfect apples. She held the snake higher, took a step and the tin shifted beneath her feet. “This is weakness.”

  The snake struck, a blur that slowed only when the fangs snagged in her face. She faltered, and the snake hit her again. Twice. Once on the brow, once on her lower lip. More holes. More blood. She stopped walking, and suddenly her eyes shone, so brown they were black, so still they could pass for empty. They were Johnny’s eyes, their mother’s eyes. Her hand tightened on the snake, and Johnny saw that she was not afraid. Her face radiated violence and anger. Her lips paled and the snake began to struggle. She squeezed and her voice gained strength.

  “Weakness,” she repeated, fingers white, snake becoming frantic as she crushed it. It struck her hand, her face. It hit the neck and hung on, pumping its venom even as it writhed. Alyssa ignored it, moved her other hand from behind her back. In it, she held a gun, black and gleaming in the hard, hot light.

  “Power,” she said.

  And ripped the snake from her neck.

  —

  Johnny woke with a start. The drugs had worn off, but the dream kept its grip: his vanished sister, and how she’d smiled as Johnny laid fingers on the warm, bright metal in her hand. He touched the bandages on his chest, then he saw his mother. She sat alone in a chair by the wall. Mascara stained the skin beneath her eyes. One knee twitched.

  “Mom.”

  Her head came around and her voice caught. “Johnny.” She found her feet in an instant, crossed the room and stood over him. Her hand smoothed his hair, then she bent and wrapped her arms around him. “My baby.”

  —

  Detective Hunt came two hours after breakfast. He appeared in the door, gave Johnny a tight smile, then crooked a finger at Katherine and moved back into the hall.

  Johnny watched them through the glass. Whatever Hunt said, his mother didn’t like it. They argued hotly. She shook her head, stared twice through the window, then dipped her chin. Hunt’s hand touched her shoulder once, but she threw it off.

  When the door finally opened, Hunt entered first, Johnny’s mother right behind him. She offered an unconvincing smile, then perched on the edge of a slick, vinyl-covered chair in the corner. She looked as if she might throw up.

  “Hey, Johnny.” Hunt pulled a chair closer to the bed. “How are you feeling?”

  Johnny looked from his mother to the glint of metal under Hunt’s arm, the black and shining steel. “Is Tiffany okay?”

  Hunt twitched his jacket closed. “I think she will be.”

  Johnny closed his eyes and saw her sitting in the dead man’s blood; he felt the dry, hot skin of her arm as he’d tried to get her in the car. “She didn’t know who I was. We’ve been in school together for seven years.” He shook his head. “Halfway to the hospital, she finally recognized me. She wouldn’t let go of me. Crying. Screaming.”

  “I’ll find out how she is. First thing.” Hunt paused and his voice went grown-up serious. “It was a brave thing you did.”

  Johnny blinked. “I didn’t save anybody.”

  “Is that right?”

  “That’s what they’re saying, isn’t it?”

  “Some people are saying that. Yes.”

  “He was going to kill me. Tiffany is the hero. They shouldn’t be telling stories otherwise.”

  “TV people, Johnny. Don’t take it seriously.”

  Johnny stared at the white wall and one hand touched the bandages on his chest. “He was going to kill me.”

  Katherine made a noise that sounded like a sob, and Hunt turned in his seat. “There is really no need for you to be here.”

  She rose from the edge of her seat. “You can’t make me go.”

  “No one is suggesting—”

  “I am not leaving.” Her voice climbed, hands shaking.

  Hunt turned back to Johnny, and his smile seemed real, though troubled. “Are you strong enough to answer some questions?” Johnny nodded. “We’re going to start at the beginning. I want you to picture the man you saw on the bridge, the one driving the car that hit the motorcycle. Got it?”

  “Y
es.”

  “Now, picture the man that assaulted you after you ran.”

  “He didn’t assault me. He just picked me up, kind of held me.”

  “Held you?”

  “Like he was waiting for something.”

  “Is there any chance that it could have been the same man. The man on the bridge. The one that picked you up.”

  “They were different men.”

  “You barely saw the man on the bridge. You said he was a silhouette.”

  “Different shape, different size. They were a mile apart, maybe even two.”

  Hunt explained about the bend in the river. “It’s possible that it was the same man.”

  “I know how the river runs. The middle of that bend is a swamp. If you tried to cut across it, you’d sink to your waist. The trail follows the river for a reason. They’re different men, trust me. The one on the bridge didn’t even look big enough to carry that box.”

  “What box?”

  “Like a trunk,” Johnny said. “Wrapped in plastic. He had it on a shoulder and it looked real heavy.”

  “Describe it.”

  “Black plastic. Silver tape. Long. Thick. Like a trunk. He held me with one arm, held the trunk with the other. Just stood there, like I said, and then he spoke to me.”

  “You didn’t tell me that before. What did he say?”

  “God says.”

  “What does that mean?”

  “I don’t know.”

  Hunt stood and walked to the window. For a long minute, he stared through the glass. “Does the name David Wilson mean anything to you?”

  “No.”

  “What about Levi Freemantle?”

  “David Wilson is the man that got knocked off the bridge. Levi Freemantle is the man that picked me up.”

  “You said that the names meant nothing to you.”

  Johnny rolled his shoulders. “They don’t. But Freemantle is a Mustee name, so that has to be the big guy. That makes David Wilson the dead one.”

  “Mustee?”

  “Yeah.”

  “What’s mustee?”

  “Indian blood mixed with African.” Hunt looked vacant. “Lumbee, Sapona, Cherokee, Catawba. There were Indian slaves, too. Didn’t you know that?”

  Hunt studied the kid, not sure if he should believe him. “How do you know that Freemantle is a mustee name?”

  “Raven county’s first freed slave was a mustee named Isaac. When he was freed, he chose the name Freemantle as his last name. Mantle of freedom. That’s what the name means.”

  “Before this case, I’d never heard of Freemantles in Raven County.”

  Johnny shrugged. “They’ve been around. Why do you think Levi Freemantle is the same man from the bridge?”

  “Let’s talk about Burton Jarvis.”

  “No,” Johnny said.

  “What?”

  “Not unless you answer my question. That’s only fair.”

  “This isn’t the playground, Johnny. It’s not about fair.”

  “He’s very stubborn,” Katherine said.

  “Very well,” Hunt said. “One question. One time.”

  Johnny dipped his chin, and his eyes never left Hunt’s face. “Why do you think that Levi Freemantle is the same man from the bridge?”

  “Freemantle left a print on David Wilson’s body. It makes us wonder if Freemantle was the one that drove him off the bridge. If you could tell us they were the same men, Freemantle and the one you saw on the bridge, it would clean things up.” Hunt did not mention the bodies found in Freemantle’s house, the drawing of the giant stick figure holding a girl with a yellow dress and a blood-red mouth.

  Johnny sat up straighter, and something pulled beneath the bandages. “Was David Wilson still alive when Freemantle got to him?”

  “Unknown.”

  “But possible.”

  Hunt pictured the bloody prints on the dead man’s eyelids. “Doubtful,” he said.

  “Maybe he told Freemantle where she was.”

  “I wouldn’t go there, Johnny.”

  “What if he was talking about Alyssa. Maybe he told Freemantle where he found her.”

  “No.”

  “But, maybe—”

  “It’s doubtful that he was talking about Alyssa at all, and it’s just as doubtful that he was still alive when Freemantle got to him.” Hunt studied the kid, watched him do the math. “Don’t even think about it,” he said.

  “Think about what?”

  He was so wide-eyed and innocent, any other cop would buy it. “Your days playing at cop are over, Johnny. No more maps. No more adventures. Do I make myself clear?”

  Johnny turned his head away. “You asked about Burton Jarvis. What do you want to know?”

  “Start at the beginning. How did you find his house? Why were you there? What did you see? What happened? All of it. Everything.”

  Johnny pictured his first few times at the house: the dark and the shed, how the house looked through the trees and the noise of small animals in the deep woods. He thought of plaster nails and months of bad dreams, Jar’s terrible friend and their talk of Small Yellow. The laughter that made Johnny’s legs get weak. He could not suppress the anxiety, and his mother picked up on it. She stood and paced, worried, and the movement annoyed Detective Hunt. “Would you mind sitting down, Katherine?”

  She ignored him.

  “Katherine.”

  “How am I supposed to sit there like everything is okay?” She twitched, and her eyes glittered. “Social Services.” She glared at Hunt. “I won’t allow it!”

  Hunt lowered his voice. “We agreed to leave Johnny out of this for now.”

  “I can’t stand it!”

  “I’m doing what I can, Katherine. You have to believe me.”

  “You told me that you’d bring Alyssa home. You told me to believe that, too.”

  Hunt paled. “This is not helpful.”

  “Is that what you were talking about? “Johnny gestured toward the hall. “DSS?”

  “Social Services is concerned for your welfare, Johnny. Given all that’s happened, they’re required to make a full evaluation. That means interviews, home inspections. They’ll talk to the school. But all of that can take awhile. In the meantime, they want to remove you from your mother’s custody. Temporarily. For your own protection.”

  “Protection?”

  “They think you’re at risk.”

  “From me,” Katherine said.

  “Nobody is saying that!” Hunt lost his patience.

  “This is wrong,” Johnny said.

  “Take it easy, son.” Hunt looked at Johnny’s mother, who was close to tears, then focused on the boy. “I’m talking to your Uncle Steve. I think I can arrange for you to stay with him while this runs its course.”

  “Steve is an asshole.”

  “Johnny!”

  “Well, he is, Mom.”

  Hunt leaned closer. “It’s Steve or a court-appointed guardian. With Steve, your mother can visit when she wants. You’ll still be with family, at least until a final decision is made. If it goes to court, it’s out of my hands. The judge makes the call and you take what you get. It’s not always good.”

  Johnny looked at his mother, but her face was in her hands. “Mom?” She shook her head.

  “I’m sorry,” Hunt said. “But this has been a long time coming. In the end, it will be for the best.”

  “We need to find my father,” Johnny said.

  He didn’t hear his mother’s footsteps. Suddenly, she was just there, by the bed. Her eyes shone, large and dark and sad. “No one knows where to find him, Johnny.”

  “But you said he wrote. You said Chicago, maybe California.”

  “He never wrote.”

  “But—”

  “I lied.” She turned one palm, and it flashed white. “He never wrote.”

  Johnny’s vision blurred. “I want to go home,” he said, but Hunt was unforgiving.

  “That’s not going to happen.?
??

  Katherine stepped to her son’s side. She lifted her chin, and Hunt saw the protectiveness, the thin measure of pride. “Please,” she said, and took her son’s hand.

  “I want to go home,” Johnny repeated.

  And for an instant, Hunt was kind enough to look away; but this was the job. He admired a lot of things about the kid, but whatever fantasy world the boy lived in, it was time to knock it down, before somebody else got hurt or the boy got himself killed.

  Hunt crossed the room and picked up the paper bag that held the boy’s feathers, his rattles, and the lone, yellowed skull. He pulled out the necklaces and turned so that they hung at eye level. “You want to tell me about this?”

  “What is that?” Katherine asked.

  “Johnny was wearing these when he came in. He was painted with soot and berry juice, half dressed, his pockets stuffed with something they tell me is snakeroot, whatever that is. DSS is going to ask about that, about all of it. They’re going to push, hard, and I think maybe Johnny should start by telling me.”

  Johnny stared at the feathers, saw that Jar had sliced one of them clean in half. Nothing, he realized, had changed. The cop was still a threat, his mother still weak. No one would understand.

  “It’s not normal,” Hunt stressed.

  “I don’t want to talk about that.”

  “Tell me about Burton Jarvis.”

  “No.”

  “How did you find him? How many times did you go there?”

  Johnny looked out the window.

  Hunt dropped the necklaces, scooped up the pages that contained Johnny’s notes. “Are these notes accurate? This indicates more than a dozen visits. And others, too. Not just at the Jarvis place.”

  Johnny glanced at the notes. “Those are just pretend.”

  “What?”

  “Like a game.”

  “Johnny—” Disappointment hung on his features.

  Johnny didn’t even blink. “Last night was the first time.”

  “I understand why you feel the need to lie, son, but I need to know what you saw. You have five names on here, people that we’re aware of, known offenders that we’re watching. Then there’s the sixth man. The one that came to Burton Jarvis’s place on multiple occasions.” Hunt studied the page. “There’s a full page of notes on this man. You have a general description: height, weight, hair color. You have the make of his car and three different license plate numbers, all of which were reported stolen sometime in the past year. I need to know who this man is. I think you can help me.”