The Last Child

CHAPTER NINE

Detective Hunt drove fast down wet, narrow roads. The crime scene was three miles behind him, medical examiner packing up the body, Hunt’s people still on scene. Things had changed after Cross showed him the map. Pieces had shifted in Hunt’s mind, possibilities, variables. David Wilson was killed, Hunt believed, because he’d somehow found Tiffany Shore.

I found her, he’d told the boy, and now he was dead.

But where did he find her? How? Under what circumstances? And most important, who killed him? Hunt had drilled in on the car that ran him off the road, the man driving that car. That was logical, but the bend in the river impacted that logic. Hunt had assumed that there were three different men at or near the bridge when the deed was done: Wilson, now dead; the driver of the car that killed him; a random black male two miles downriver. Now Hunt had to question that. Maybe Johnny’s giant was not just in the wrong place at the wrong time. Maybe he drove the car that killed David Wilson. Or maybe not.

Two men or three?

Damn!

Hunt needed to talk to Johnny, not later, but now, right this minute. He had new questions. He radioed dispatch and asked to be connected to the patrol unit he’d assigned to take Johnny and Katherine home. He looked at his watch and cursed as the connection was routed. Almost ten hours, that’s how long Tiffany had been gone, and the stats were as cold and exact as only numbers could be. Few abductees made it past the first day; that’s just how it ran.

Speed.

It all came down to speed.

I found her.

Hunt needed to ask Johnny about the man with the scarred face, about what he saw on the bridge. Hunt needed to know if the two men were one and the same. Not speculation or theory, fact.

“Connecting now,” dispatch told him.

A second voice crackled on the radio. Hunt identified himself and asked the officer for Johnny’s twenty.

“I just left his house. He was in the driveway last I saw him.”

“How long ago, exactly?”

A pause. “Twenty minutes.”

“Twenty minutes. Got it.” Hunt clicked off. Another five would bring him to the house. Come on, come on. He accelerated until the car went light beneath him, steered at dangerous speeds over the slick black roads.

More than three hours since the motorcycle was struck. Whoever hit David Wilson could be anywhere by now, out of the county, out of the state, but Hunt didn’t think so. It was risky to cover distance with an abducted child. Once an Amber Alert went out, the public became very aware. Most of these perverts wanted to grab the kid and go to ground. Johnny Merrimon was right about that. And while some abductions were carefully orchestrated, most were matters of opportunity. A child left in the car or untended in a busy store. A child walking alone.

Like Alyssa Merrimon.

She’d been walking home at dusk, alone on an empty stretch of road. No one could have known she’d be there. No one could have planned for that. Same with Tiffany Shore. She’d lingered near the parking lot after the bell rang. It was a matter of opportunity. And desire.

Hunt braked for a red light, then turned left without stopping and felt the back end lose traction. He corrected the drift, straightened. He thought of evil and of the hard lump in the holster under his arm.

When word came in of Tiffany’s abduction, Hunt had ordered a massive response. He’d sent patrol cars to verify the locations of all known sex offenders. Most were considered low probability: voyeurs, exhibitionists; but there were plenty of individuals convicted of rape or child abuse or some other heinous act. Hunt kept a short list of the worst: the deranged, sadistic individuals who were capable of just about anything. These men never got over the evil that drove them. There was no curing, no fixing. For these assholes, it was only a matter of time, so Hunt kept on top of them. He knew where they lived and what they drove; he knew their habits and their predilections. He’d seen photos, talked to victims, and seen the scars firsthand. None of those fuckers should be out of prison.

Not now.

Not ever.

Most were accounted for; they’d been located and interviewed. Almost all had given permission for a search of their homes, and all of the searches had come up negative. Those who had refused were under constant surveillance and Hunt got regular reports. He knew what they were eating and when; if they were alone or not, and if not, who they were with. He knew their locations, their activities. Awake or asleep. Static or on the move. Hunt fielded calls and kept his men sharp as they continued to work the list.

Hunt ran the names in his head. No one on the list stood six and a half feet tall. None had scars like the Merrimon kid had described. If Cross was right, that meant they had a new player, someone off the grid. And if Cross was wrong…

The possibilities were endless.

Hunt pulled a photograph of Tiffany Shore from his jacket pocket and glanced at it. He’d taken it from her distraught mother just a few hours ago. It was a school photo, and in it Tiffany was smiling and self-aware. He looked for similarities to Alyssa, but there were precious few. Alyssa had dark hair and fragile features; she looked young and small and innocent, with the same dark eyes as her brother. Tiffany had full lips, a perfect nose, and hair like yellow silk. The picture showed a graceful neck, nascent breasts, and a knowing smile that hinted at the woman she might one day become. The girls looked as if they had little in common, but they did.

They were innocent, both of them, and they were his responsibility.

His.

Nobody else’s.

That thought still simmered in Hunt’s mind when his cell phone rang. He glanced at caller ID. The Chief. His boss. He gave it four rings, then, against his better judgment, he answered.

“Where are you?” The Chief wasted no time. It was barely twelve months since Alyssa vanished, and now they had another missing girl. He’d be under his own pressures, Hunt knew: Tiffany’s family, city government, the press.

“I’m en route to Katherine Merrimon’s house. I’ll be there in a few minutes.”

“You’re my lead detective. You should be at David Wilson’s house or at the crime scene. Do I really need to spell that out for you?”

“No.”

But the Chief spelled it out. “If we assume that Wilson found Tiffany Shore -and that is what we’re assuming-then you should be backtracking his activities. Where he went. Who he talked to. Any choice he made today, any path that could have intersected with Tiffany Shore -”

“I know all that,” Hunt interrupted sharply. “I sent Yoakum to his house. I’ll meet him there shortly, but this comes first.”

“Do I want to know why you’re going to Katherine Merrimon’s house?” Hunt heard the doubt, the sudden distrust.

“Her son may have information.”

Hunt pictured the Chief: flunkies in his office, fat man’s sweat staining his shirt. His voice was a politician’s voice.

“I need to know that you’re on this, Hunt. Are you on this?”

“That’s a bullshit question.” Hunt knew the source of the Chief’s doubt, but could not hide the anger he felt. So he spent time on the Merrimon case. So what? Maybe he felt more than most cops would. It was an important case; but that’s not how the Chief saw it. No. He heard about Hunt, awake every night at three in the morning; Hunt, showing up at sunrise on a Sunday to pore over evidence he’d already seen a hundred times; harassing judges to sign warrants that never panned out; working overtime, then off the clock; leveraging other cops, resources that should be spent on other cases. He watched Hunt work himself ragged. He saw the pale skin and the weight loss, the sleepless eyes and the stacks of files on the floor of Hunt’s office. And there were other issues.

Rumors.

“It’s not a question, Hunt. It’s a demand, an imperative.”

Hunt clamped his teeth, barely able to speak around the emotion he was choking down. He ran major crimes. Lead detective. That was his job, his life. “I said, I’m on it.”

Hunt heard breath on the line, then a voice, muffled in the background. When the Chief spoke, his words came with precision. “I have no room for personal, Hunt. Not on this case.”

Hunt stared straight ahead. “Got it. No personal.”

“This is about Tiffany Shore. Her family. Not Alyssa Merrimon. Not her brother. And not her mother. Are we clear?”

“ Crystal.”

A long pause, then a voice that hinted at regret. “Personal gets you fired, Clyde. It gets you drummed right the hell out of my department. Don’t make me do that.”

“I don’t need a lecture.” He left the rest unsaid: Not from some fat, politician cop.

“You’ve already lost your wife. Don’t lose your job, too.”

Hunt looked in the mirror and saw the rage in his own eyes. He pulled air deep into his lungs. “Just stay out of my way,” he said, and sounded like a reasonable man might sound. “Show a little faith.”

“You’ve been burning the faith candle for a year, and it’s burned pretty damn low. When the papers go to bed tomorrow night, I want to see a picture of Tiffany Shore sitting on her mother’s lap. Front page. That’s how we keep our jobs.” A pause, Hunt unwilling to trust his voice and therefore silent. “Give me a happy ending, Clyde. Give me that, and I’ll pretend you’re the same cop you were a year ago.”

The Chief hung up.

Hunt punched the roof of his car, then turned into Johnny’s driveway. He noticed at once that the station wagon was gone. When he knocked on the front door, it rattled enough to make the house sound hollow. Hunt looked through the small window and saw Ken Holloway emerging from the dark hall. He wore shined shoes under slightly wrinkled pants, and worked to get his shirt tucked in. He cinched up an alligator belt, then paused at a mirror to smooth his hair and check his teeth. A revolver hung in his right hand.

“Police, Mr. Holloway. Put down the gun and open the door.”

Holloway twitched, suddenly aware that he could be seen through the window. A deprecating smile rose on his face. “Police who?”

“Detective Clyde Hunt. I need to speak to Johnny.”

The smile disappeared. “May I see a badge?”

Hunt pressed his shield to the glass, then stepped away from the door and lowered one hand to the butt of his service weapon. Holloway donated money to good causes. He served on boards and played golf with powerful people.

But Hunt knew the man.

It had taken a year of watching Katherine and Johnny: odd encounters, like the one at the grocery store; things said and not said; a limp or a bruise; the boy’s naked eyes when he thought he was being tough. Hunt had pushed, but Katherine was gone most of the time, out of it, and Johnny was scared. Hunt had nothing solid.

But he knew.

Another step back cleared three feet between Hunt and the door. The dark bulk of Holloway’s chest was visible through the slash of window. He looked meaty and tan, with a broad chest above a thick stomach. His face appeared behind the glass. “It’s the middle of the night, Detective.”

“It’s barely nine, Mr. Holloway. A child has been abducted. Please open the door.”

The lock disengaged and the door swung open a foot. Creases cut the flesh of Holloway’s face, but Hunt saw damp spots at the hairline where he’d tried to make himself crisp. His hands were empty. “What does Tiffany Shore ’s disappearance have to do with Johnny?”

“Can you step away from the door, please?” Hunt kept his voice professional, which was hard. He’d as soon shoot Ken Holloway as look at him.

“Very well.” Holloway pushed the door wide and turned, his hands slapping the sides of his legs.

Hunt stepped inside, eyes cutting left and right until he spotted the weapon, a.38 caliber revolver. Stainless. It sat on top of the television, barrel angled to the wall.

“It’s registered,” Holloway said.

“I’m sure it is. I need to speak with Johnny.”

“This is about what happened today?”

Hunt smelled alcohol. “Do you really care?”

Holloway smiled without humor. “Just a minute.” He raised his voice. “Johnny.” No answer. He called again, then cursed under his breath. The hall swallowed him up and Hunt heard a door open, then slam closed. When he returned, he came alone. “He’s not here.”

“Where is he?”

“I have no idea.”

Anger rose in Hunt’s voice. “He’s thirteen years old. It’s dark out and raining. The car is gone and you have no idea where he is? As far as I’m concerned, that constitutes neglect.”

“And as I understand the law, Detective, that’s his mother’s problem. I’m a guest in this house.”

Their eyes locked, and Hunt stepped closer. Holloway was a two-faced user, slick and accommodating, but only when it served his needs. There may be buildings named after him at the college, but Hunt could not hide his dislike. “You need to be careful with me.”

“Is that a threat?”

Hunt said nothing.

“You have no idea who I am,” Holloway said.

“If harm comes to that boy…”

Holloway smiled coldly. “What’s your name again? I have a meeting tomorrow with the mayor and the city manager. I’d like to get it right.”

Hunt spelled it for him, then said, “About the boy.”

“He’s a delinquent. What do you want me to do about it? He’s neither my son nor my responsibility. Now, do you want me to get his mother? I may be able to wake her. She won’t know where he is, but I’ll haul her out here if it will make you happy.”

Hunt had admired Johnny’s mother since they’d first met. Small but full of life, she’d shown courage and faith under unbearable circumstances. She’d stayed strong until the day she fell apart, at which point the collapse was total. Maybe it was grief, maybe it was guilt, but she was tragic and lost, adrift in the kind of horror that few parents could imagine. The thought of her with a user like Ken Holloway was bad enough. Seeing her dragged out of bed by him would be even worse, a degradation.

“I’ll find him myself.” Hunt moved for the door.

“We’re not finished, Detective.”

“No,” Hunt said, “we’re not.”

His hand was on the door when Holloway’s cell phone rang. He lingered as Holloway answered: “Yes.” Holloway turned his back to Hunt. “Are you certain? Very well. Yes, call the police. I’ll be there in ten minutes.” He closed the phone and faced Hunt. “My alarm company,” he said. “If you still want to find Johnny, you can start by looking at my house.”

“Why do you say that?”

“Because the little shit just threw a rock through my front window.”

“What makes you think it’s Johnny?”

Holloway picked up his keys. “It’s always Johnny.”

“Always?”

“This is the fifth fucking time.”

Johnny drove down dark streets, and rain put mercury streaks on the glass. Tiffany Shore ’s parents were rich, and lived just three blocks from Ken Holloway. Johnny had been to a party there once. He slowed as he approached Tiffany’s house, then stopped on the street. He saw cop cars and shadows that moved behind draped windows. He watched the house for a long time, then looked at the neighbors on both sides. Warm light spilled out of those houses, and in the dark of the street, Johnny felt very alone, because nobody else knew. No one could understand what was happening behind the walls of Tiffany’s house, what her family was suffering: the fear and anger, the slow drain of hope and the end of all things.

No one knew what Johnny knew.

Except her parents, he thought.

Her parents knew.

Hunt sat in his car and watched Holloway come out of the house. He gave a cold stare that Hunt was happy to return, then settled into his car. The big engine caught and the Escalade rocked onto the road. Hunt listened to the rain on his car and looked at the light spilling from Johnny’s house. Katherine was asleep in there, and he pictured her buried under the covers, back curved against the night.

He powered up his laptop and keyed in Johnny Merrimon’s name. Ken had filed complaints, but there was no record of any arrest. No warrants. Whatever Holloway believed about Johnny’s involvement in the ongoing vandalism of his house, he had no proof of it.

Hunt thought about why Johnny would throw rocks through Holloway’s windows. Only one thing made sense. Johnny wanted the man out of his house, away from his mother, and he’d figured out the one thing that would do it every time. No way would a man like Holloway leave his house unguarded. Not overnight.

Five times and never caught. Hunt shook his head and tried not to smile.

He really did like that kid.

For another two minutes, Hunt sat in the car and pored through the Tiffany Shore file. It was thin. He knew what she was wearing when last seen. He had a list of identifying marks. A dime-sized birthmark marred the back of her right shoulder blade; a fishhook scar still showed pink on her left calf. She was twelve years old, blond, with no major dental work, no surgical scars. Hunt had her height, weight, date of birth. She owned a cell phone but records showed no outgoing calls since yesterday. Not much to go on. What they did have was a couple of kids who heard her scream but couldn’t agree on the color of the car she was pulled into. Hunt had also questioned her closest friends. As far as they knew, Tiffany had no secret boyfriend, no problems at home. She made good grades, liked horses, and had kissed a boy maybe once. A typical girl.

Hunt jotted a note in the file: Were Tiffany and Alyssa friends? Maybe they both knew the wrong guy.

Hunt thought of the things he did not have. He had no description of the perp, no calls of suspicious activity, and no ID on the car. Basically, nothing. What he did have was Johnny Merrimon and the things that David Wilson had told him before he died. He claimed to have found the girl that had been taken. Found her where? Found her how? Dead or alive? Whoever ran David Wilson off the road did so on purpose. But was it Johnny Merrimon’s giant, as Cross suspected? Or was it someone else?

Hunt needed to find the kid.

He called the station, got one of his detectives. “It’s Hunt. What have you got?”

“Nothing good. Myers and Holiday are still with Tiffany’s parents.”

“Are they holding up?” Hunt interrupted.

“Their doctor is there. The mother, you know. They’re sedating her.”

“Anything on Tiffany’s cell?”

“Nothing. No hits on GPS, either.”

“Is Yoakum still backtracking David Wilson?”

“He’s at the house now.”

“Do we know anything yet?”

“Just that Wilson was a professor at the college. Biology of some sort.”

“What about prints?” Hunt asked.

“We got a thumb print from the victim’s eyelid. We’re running it now. Should know something soon.”

“Volunteers?”

“Over a hundred so far. We’re trying to get that organized for an early start. Should be working the countryside by six.” A silence fell between the men, both thinking the same thing: It’s a damn big county.

“We need more people,” Hunt said. “Get the churches involved, the civic clubs. We had a hundred college kids when Alyssa Merrimon went missing. Call the dean.” Hunt rattled off a number from memory. “He’s sympathetic. See if he can make something happen. Also, I want Tiffany’s school canvassed again tomorrow. Send the least intimidating officers you can find. Young ones. Females. You know the drill. I don’t want to miss something just because some kid is too scared to talk to us.”

“Got it. What else can I do?”

“Hang on.” Hunt pulled up Katherine Merrimon’s registration on his laptop. “Write this down, then put it on the wire.” He gave the model, make, and license plate. “The kid is in his mom’s car. It’s a beater. Shouldn’t be too hard to spot. Check Tate Street first, Ken Holloway’s house. I doubt he’ll be there, but it’s worth a look. If anyone sees this car, I need to know immediately. Stop and detain. Call me when it happens.”

“On it.”

“Good. Give me David Wilson’s address.” Hunt reached for his pen, but saw movement on the porch of Johnny’s house. A pale arm reached out.

What the hell?

He heard a scream, muted by the rain. His fingers found the lights, and bright beams slashed through the rain. “Holy shit.”

“Detective-”

Hunt pressed the phone to his ear. “I have to go,” he said.

“But-”

Hunt clicked the phone shut. His hand moved for the door, and he spoke again, even as rain hit his face.

“Holy shit.”

But another scream drowned out the words.