The Last Child

CHAPTER EIGHT

In the back of the patrol car, Johnny’s mother slumped against his shoulder. Her head rolled when the curves came fast, bounced when the tires hit rough pavement. The river was behind them, the dead guy, too, and what was left of Johnny’s faith in the wisdom of cops. Hunt refused to consider that this could still be about Alyssa, and that had made Johnny angry.

Maybe!

He’d said it loud, then repeated it when Hunt’s eyes went soft.

Maybe it is!

But Hunt was busy and had his own ideas. He’d grown short with Johnny’s insistence, then declined further discussion and ordered them home.

Leave it alone, he’d said. This is not your problem.

But the cop was wrong. Johnny felt it in his heart. It was his problem.

The patrol car stopped in the driveway. Rain hammered on the metal roof and Johnny studied the house, the light that faltered in the small, muddy yard. Shadows moved inside. Ken’s car sat in the drive; Uncle Steve’s did, too. The pills had taken his mother. Her eyes were closed, and small sounds tripped past her lips. Johnny hesitated, and the patrolman turned in his seat, his face distorted behind the glass divider covered with handprints and dried spit. “She okay?” he asked.

Johnny nodded.

“Well, this is it, kid.” He hesitated, eyes still on Johnny’s mother. “Is she going to need some help?”

Johnny defense mechanisms kicked in. “She’s okay.”

“Well, let’s go.”

Johnny shook his mother’s shoulder. Her head lolled and he shook harder. When she opened her eyes, he squeezed her arm. “We have to go,” he said. “We’re home.”

“Home.” She repeated the word.

“Yes. Home. Let’s go.” Johnny opened his door and the rain sound changed from metallic clang to muted roar. Sheets of water fell on wet earth and drooping leaves. Warm air flooded the car. “Don’t forget your bag,” he said.

Johnny got her out of the car and turned for the shelter of the porch as the patrol car backed out of the mud and spun tires on the slick blacktop. He was on the porch when he realized that his mother was not with him. She stood in the rain, face turned to heaven, hands palm up. Her bag lay in the mud where she’d dropped it. Water fell black around her.

Johnny splashed to her side, the rain stinging hard from its long fall down. “Mom?” He took her arm again. “Come on. Let’s go inside.” She kept her eyes closed but spoke, her voice too low to hear. “What?” Johnny asked.

“I want to go away.”

“Mom…”

“I want to wash into the earth and be gone from this place.”

Johnny picked up her bag, squeezed her arm hard. “Inside. Now.” He sounded like Ken, he realized; but she followed him.

Inside, the lights burned sulfur bright. Uncle Steve sat at the kitchen table, a row of beer cans in front of him. Ken paced, bourbon in a glass between his heavy fingers. They looked up as Johnny led his mother in. “About time,” Ken said. “The nerve of that arrogant cop, telling me that I couldn’t come. Telling me that I could go home or wait here with him.” He gestured at Uncle Steve, and the disdain was plain in his voice. Steve’s head dipped between his shoulders. “I’m going to talk to somebody about that. He should know who I am.”

“He knows who you are. He just doesn’t care.” The words popped out of Johnny before he’d thought them through. Ken stopped and stared, and Johnny knew it could go two ways. But then his mother came in behind him. She was blank-eyed and soaking wet; her clothing clung to her. Johnny took her arm as Ken stared. “Come on,” he said. “I’ll take you to your room.”

“I’ll take her.” Ken stepped toward them, and Johnny felt something pop. “No,” he said. “Just back off, Ken. She doesn’t need you right now. She just needs to go to bed. She needs sleep and quiet and nobody messing with her.”

Red suffused Ken’s face. “Messing with her…”

Johnny thought briefly of the folding knife in his pocket. He put himself between Ken and his mother. The moment stretched until Ken decided to smile around his straight and brilliant teeth. “Katherine?” He looked to Johnny’s mother. “Tell your son it’s okay.”

“It’s okay, Johnny.” The words traveled from some distant place. She swayed a bit, then said, “I’m fine.” She turned from her son and shambled to the short and lightless hall. “Let’s just go to bed.” She put a hand on the wall, stopped for three long seconds, and Johnny watched water run down her face. When she turned, her voice had nothing left. “Go home, Steve.”

Ken followed her to the end of the hall, looked back once, and shut the door. Johnny did not hear the lock drop, but he knew that it had. He wanted to punch the wall; instead, he looked at his Uncle Steve, who gathered his cans in silence. He tossed them in the trash and collected his keys, a giant ring of them that opened every door at the mall. Paradise to any other kid. Just metal to Johnny. Uncle Steve stopped at the door. His eyes were troubled, and he looked at Johnny differently. He put an arm on the doorjamb. “Is this how it is?” he asked, opening one palm in a gesture that encompassed Johnny and the short hall to the locked door.

“Pretty much.”

“Damn.” Uncle Steve nodded, which Johnny thought was about all he could ever do. “About this morning…”

“What about it?” Johnny asked.

“She’s just real pretty.” Johnny turned away. “Thanks for not telling.”

But Johnny, too, had nothing left. He went to his room and sat on the edge of his bed. He looked at the clock on the table and watched the tiny hand tick from one white slash to the next. He counted seconds until the headboard across the hall began its unholy thump; then he went in search of his mother’s keys.

Ninety-four, he thought, and locked the front door behind him.

Ninety-four seconds.

He splashed through the mud and started his mother’s car. At the bottom of the drive he opened the door, leaned out, and picked up a rock the size of a tennis ball.

When he left the house behind, Johnny steered with care. The windshield was fogged and only one headlight worked. He saw wet pavement, a hint of ditch. He wiped the glass with his hand and looked for the turn that would take him to the rich side of town.

He slowed as he turned onto Ken’s street. The houses loomed, set back on huge lawns. Long walks curved across velvet grass and gates guarded the drives, the metal so black it looked cold. Johnny turned off the headlights as his tires crunched against the curb. He left the engine running. It would only take a second.

The rock felt perfect in his hand.