The Last Child

CHAPTER SIX

Johnny came onto his own street just as the sun set and the light faded to purple. Night sounds rose in the woods. He limped, in pain, but his mind was flush with hope. It burned with it.

I found her.

You found who?

The girl that was taken.

Johnny replayed the words over and over, looking for some reason to doubt the emotion that pushed him through the pain that radiated up from his feet. Eight miles, most of it running, all of it without shoes. His feet were torn and cut, but his right foot was the worst, gashed by a broken bottle two miles after the hobgoblin with the black box grabbed him. Johnny could still taste the man’s blood, the dirt on his skin. He tried not to think about it too much. Instead, he thought about his sister, his mother.

Johnny crested the second-to-last hill and a damp wind pressed against him. He saw lights strung out on the roadside. Windows. Houses. They looked small under the purple sky, crowded where the dark forest pushed them against the thin black road. Another mile, he told himself. One more hill.

His mother needed to hear what he’d heard.

He started down, and did not hear the car that rose on the crest behind him. He imagined what the news might do for his mother. Get her out of bed. Get her off the pills. It could be a whole new beginning. The two of them, and then Alyssa.

His father would come back.

They could get their old house.

The headlights found him and Johnny moved off the road. His shadow flowed left, then flickered out when the car pulled even and stopped. Johnny felt a spike of fear, then recognized Ken’s car. It was a Cadillac, big and white, with sharp edges and gold letters that said, Escalade. Ken’s window came down. His skin was almost tan enough to hide the bags under his eyes. “Where the hell have you been?” Johnny shook his head, winded. “Get in the car, Johnny. Right now.”

Johnny bent at the waist. “I don’t-” He shoved a fist into his side.

Ken jammed the transmission into park and threw open his door. “Don’t talk back to me, kid. Just get in the car. Your mother’s falling apart over this. The whole town is in an uproar.” Ken climbed out. He was tall and heavy, shapeless in the way that Johnny thought only middle-aged men could be. He had a gold watch, thin hair, and laugh lines that made no sense to Johnny.

Johnny’s words came with difficulty. “Falling apart over what?”

Ken gestured with a thick hand. “In. Now.”

Johnny climbed in and slid across the smooth leather seat. Ken put the car in gear, and Johnny thought of the dead man.

I found her.

The house was lit up like Christmas: inside lights, outside lights, cop cars that angled in the drive and painted the yard with slashes of blue. Uniformed cops stood under the darkening sky, and Johnny saw guns and radios and slick, black clubs that hung from metal rings.

“What’s going on?”

Ken opened his door and dropped a hand on Johnny’s neck. Fingers dug into the thin straps of muscle and Johnny rolled his shoulders.

“That hurts.”

“Not as much as it should.” Ken dragged him across the seat and out of the car. His hand came away and he offered the cops a perfect smile. “Found him,” he announced, and they stopped in the drive as Johnny’s mother stepped onto the porch. She wore blue jeans and a brown shirt faded to the color of chocolate milk. Uncle Steve stepped out beside her. Johnny took another step, and his mother flew down the stairs, hair gone wild, eyes wet and crazy. She threw her arms around him, and her words blurred: “Oh my God. Where have you been?”

Johnny didn’t understand. He’d come home after dark many times. Most days, she didn’t know if he was in bed or not. Over his mother’s shoulder, Johnny saw one of the cops lift his radio. “Dispatch. Twenty-seven. Please inform Detective Hunt that we’ve located Johnny Merrimon. He’s at home.”

A static-filled voice acknowledged what the cop had said. Then, some seconds later, the radio hissed again. “Twenty-seven, be advised. Detective Hunt is en route to your location.”

“Ten-four, dispatch.”

Johnny felt his mother’s arms loosen. She pushed him back, and suddenly she was shaking him, screaming: “Don’t you ever do that again! Not ever! Do you hear me? Do you? Say you do! Say it!” Then she grabbed him up again. “God, Johnny. I was so worried.”

Johnny was shaken and squeezed, rattled so hard he could barely speak. The cops moved down the stairs, and Johnny saw his Uncle Steve, who begged with his eyes. Then Johnny understood. “The school called?”

His mother nodded against his neck. “They went into lockdown right after lunch. They called here and said they couldn’t find you, so I called your Uncle Steve; but he said he dropped you off. He swore it. And then you didn’t come home, and I thought…”

Johnny pulled out of her grasp. “Lockdown for what?”

His mother caressed one side of his face. “Oh, Johnny.” Her fingers felt shaky and warm. “It’s happened again.”

“What has?”

His mother broke. “Another girl’s been taken. Right off the school grounds, they think. A seventh-grader. Tiffany Shore.”

Johnny blinked. His words came, automatic. “I know Tiffany.”

“Me, too.”

Her voice trailed off, but Johnny knew what she was thinking. Tiffany Shore was in the seventh grade. Same as Alyssa had been when she vanished. Johnny shook his head. He thought of the dead man’s words. When he’d said, I found her, he was talking about Johnny’s sister, about Alyssa. Not Tiffany. Not some other girl. “That can’t be right,” Johnny said; but his mother nodded, crying, and Johnny felt the hope go cold. He felt it crumble to ash. “That can’t be right,” he said again.

She rocked back on her heels, looking for the right words; but one of the cops stepped forward before she could find them. “Son,” he said, and Johnny looked up, “is that blood on your shirt?”