The Last Child

CHAPTER SIXTEEN

The police station was on a side street downtown. Two stories, red brick, functional. Hunt blew through the station doors and found Yoakum on the second floor, bent over a city map. “Tell me,” Hunt said.

“The print is solid. Levi Freemantle. Forty-three years of age. Black male. Six foot five. Three hundred pounds.”

“Damn. I thought the kid was exaggerating.”

“No. He’s big.”

“Why does that name seem familiar?”

“Freemantle?” Yoakum leaned back in his chair. “Never heard it before tonight.”

“Do we have a photo?”

“Not from DMV. He has no driver’s license. Nor does he have a credit card or a bank account. Not that I can find.”

“David Wilson was run off the bridge by a car.”

“Maybe he has a license from another state. Maybe he just doesn’t give a shit.”

“What else do we know?” Hunt asked.

Yoakum rifled some papers. “He popped up on the radar a few years ago. Nothing before that. No arrests. No bank records or utilities or phone service. The guy was a ghost. He probably moved in from another jurisdiction. Since then, we have a number of arrests, a few convictions. He’s done time, but nothing serious. A month here. Two months there. But get this, he walked off of a work detail a week ago.”

“He’s an escaped prisoner? Why haven’t I heard about this?”

“It was in the paper last week, but buried on page nine. He’s low priority, a nonviolent offender. He was not considered a threat. Besides, it’s a county problem.”

“What kind of work detail?”

“Minimum security. Road work on a two-lane out in the country. Litter collection. Weed trimming. He just walked off into the woods.”

“Unbelievable.”

Yoakum smiled, his teeth so smooth and white they looked painted. “Are you ready for the big news?”

“What?”

“He’s done time, right. In and out. Well, get this. He was released from another stint just three days before Alyssa Merrimon was abducted.”

Hunt felt a nail of excitement. “Do not kid me, Yoakum.”

“We have an address. It’s local.”

“What about a warrant?”

“I sent Cross to get the judge out of bed.”

“Has the judge signed off on this yet?”

“He will.”

“You sure about that?”

“She’s white. Her parents are rich.” Yoakum shrugged. “Just a matter of time.”

Hunt looked around the room, cataloging faces. “Come on, Yoakum. You can’t say things like that. We’ve talked about this.”

Yoakum rolled his shoulders, and his voice came surprisingly hard. “The world is what it is, unjust and tragic and full of crying shames. Don’t hate me for it.”

“One of these days your mouth is going to get you in trouble. So keep that shit zipped.”

Yoakum popped gum and looked away. Hunt started reviewing what information they had. Levi Freemantle lived on Huron Street with Ronda Jeffries, a white female, age thirty-two. Hunt entered her name into the computer. Arrested twice for solicitation. No convictions. One bust for possession of a Class A narcotic. Convicted. Served seven months of an eighteen-month sentence. Good behavior. One conviction for public indecency. Simple assault. “Ronda Jeffries,” Hunt said, “what’s her relationship with Freemantle?”

“Shared address is all we know. Could be housemates. Could be more.”

Hunt studied the arrest sheet for Levi Freemantle. It seemed incomplete. “These are bullshit arrests. Trespass. Loitering. Shoplifting, for God’s sake. Nothing violent. No sex.”

“It is what it is.”

The sheet looked like a hundred others, so nondescript that Hunt felt like he knew the guy, like he knew a thousand of them; but six five and three hundred pounds was not something to forget. He double-checked the dates and confirmed that Levi Freemantle had been released from jail three days before Alyssa Merrimon was abducted. He’d walked off an inmate road crew one week before Tiffany Shore’s disappearance. If it was a coincidence, it was a big one. Then there was David Wilson, murdered, who claimed to have found the missing girl. Freemantle’s print was on the body. Johnny’s description matched. The timing. The bend in the river.

Hunt put down the papers. “Call Cross. Find out where we are.”

“He knows what to do.”

“Call him, John.”

Yoakum dialed Cross’s cell and asked how long he would be with the warrant. When he hung up, his voice was flat. “He says he doesn’t know. The judge won’t be rushed.”

“Damn it.” Hunt stood. “Let’s take a ride.”

Yoakum grabbed his jacket and shrugged it on as he hurried after Hunt. “We’re not going in without a warrant, are we?”

“Doing so would be stupid.”

“That’s not an answer.”

Hunt ignored him, his feet loud on the hard, textured steps going down. Yoakum spoke louder. “Damn it, Clyde, that’s not an answer.”

Huron Street turned sharp left off one of the main thoroughfares, then died on the wrong side of the tracks four miles from the city square. This part of town was near the front edge of the sand hills; you could tell from the temperature and from the vegetation. The sand held the heat, so the air was hotter. Trees grew smaller in the weak soil. The street ran narrow and short, with yards full of weed and dirt and dogs on strong chains. Hunt knew it well enough to take it seriously. Two years ago, he’d worked a murder scene on the third block in: a woman stabbed to death in her own bathtub. Turned out her son did it because she’d refused to loan him money. She died over fifty bucks.

Hard people.

A mean street.

Hunt took the left and slowed two houses in. He killed the lights, drifted over a shattered bottle, and stopped. The road stretched out, a river of dark and poverty that died at silver rails leading to better places. Small, blue light leaked through curtains in a house to the left. Crickets scraped in the weeds.

“This is a bad idea,” Yoakum said.

Hunt moved his chin. “Last block down. On the right.”

Yoakum’s head swiveled. His lips drew tight as he peered down the dark stretch. “Jesus.”

Hunt studied the street, too. He saw dull yards with dirt tracks that ran from the front stoop to the road, a mattress on the curb, sofas on porches. Cars sat on blocks. Even the sky seemed heavier than it should.

Two houses down, a pit bull paced side to side and eyed them from the end of its chain.

“I hate this shit,” Yoakum said.

“Let’s go in a bit farther.”

“Why?”

“I want to see if there’s a car at Freemantle’s house. Or lights.”

Hunt kept his headlights off and eased the car into gear. They rolled another twenty feet and the pit bull stopped pacing. Yoakum pushed back into his seat. “Bad idea,” he said, and the dog lunged the full length of its chain, barking with such venom that it felt like it was in the car. Chains rattled up and down the street as other dogs joined in. Lights flicked on in two of the houses.

“Bad idea,” Hunt agreed, and put the car in reverse. He whipped around the corner and shifted into drive.

After a minute of silence, Yoakum said: “That might be a problem.”

“The dogs?”

“He’ll hear us coming four blocks away.”

Hunt looked at his watch. “Maybe not.”

“How so?”

“Trust me.”

Yoakum looked out the window. Hunt opened his cell and dialed Cross, who answered on the first ring. “I need that warrant,” Hunt said. “I need it in twenty minutes.”

“It’s this judge.” Cross’s frustration showed. “He’s going over the affidavit for the third time.”

“What? The document is crystal clear. There’s probable cause written all over it. Lean on him.”

“I tried already.”

“Which judge is it?” Hunt asked, and Cross told him. “Put him on the phone.”

“He won’t.”

“Just do it.”

Hunt waited. Yoakum looked sideways. “You’re going to pressure the judge?”

“I’m going to threaten him.”

The judge came on the phone. “This is highly inappropriate, Detective.”

“Is there some problem with the warrant application?” Hunt asked.

“I have your affidavit and I will make my ruling once I’ve had the full opportunity-”

Hunt cut him off. “Twelve-year-old child dies while judge dallies over warrant. That’s the headline if we’re too late. I have connections at the paper, people who owe me. I’ll make sure of it.”

“You wouldn’t dare.”

“Fucking try me.”

Thirty minutes later, the cops assembled in an empty lot behind one of the local banks. They had their warrant. It was ten minutes after three, dark and quiet. Overhead, a street light snapped and sizzled, then burned out with an audible crack. Five cops, six counting Hunt. He shrugged a vest over his head, slapped the Velcro in place and checked his weapon a second time. Yoakum met him at the back of the dark blue panel truck with the small gold shield on the back door. “You ready?”

Yoakum looked concerned. “We should wait.”

“No.”

“Going in dark is a needless risk. Strange house, hostile street. He’ll hear the dogs when we’re still four blocks out.”

“We move now.”

Yoakum shook his head. “You’re going to get somebody hurt.”

“Everybody here knows what they signed up for. This is not the Boy Scouts.”

“And this is not some effete judge rubbing you the wrong way. This is the street. This is you putting good cops in harm’s way when a few more hours might make a world of difference. The Chief is looking for an excuse to fry your ass, and getting somebody hurt is the best gift you could give him. Be smart, Clyde. For once. Put this in perspective.”

Hunt seized his friend by the arm. He squeezed hard and felt bone. “What if it was your daughter? Your sister? That’s the perspective, and you need to line up on it.” Hunt dropped the arm and tried to turn away, but Yoakum wasn’t finished.

“You’re running on emotion.”

Hunt studied his friend, eyes black in the night, face pale and clenched. “Don’t go against me on this, John. I’m finding this kid and I’m finding her alive.”

“It’s on your head if somebody gets hurt.”

“And on yours if she dies while we dick around in this parking lot. Now, are you done?”

Yoakum’s features settled into determined planes. He cracked his knuckles and nodded. “I’m tired of talking anyway.”

Hunt snapped his fingers and the other cops circled around: Yoakum, Cross, and three uniforms in full body armor. “This is who we want.” He held up a poor copy of an arrest photo pulled from one of the old files. “He has severe scarring on the right side of his face. The kid that identified him said it looked melted, like wax. He’s six and a half feet tall and weighs three hundred pounds. I don’t think we’ll find more than one guy with this description, so it should be easy.”

A few nervous laughs. Hunt let them have it. “It’s the last block before the tracks, last house on the right. It sits back from the road with an empty lot behind it, tracks on one side, an occupied residence on the other. I want those three sides covered before we go in. The streetlamps are mostly busted, so it’ll be dark. The yards will be dead grass and flat dirt except for where the roots and trash make it not so flat. So watch your step. Once the van stops, Yoakum deploys first. He takes two of you with him.” Hunt pointed at two of the uniformed cops. “You’ll cover the back and sides in case he bolts. I’ll take the rest and go in the front. Cross is on the hammer, but I’m first man in. Now, this guy is huge, so no messing around. Get him down and get him down fast. The girl may be stashed elsewhere, so control your fire. We need him alive and we need him talking.”

“What about the dogs?” Yoakum interrupted.

Hunt looked at his watch. “Fuck the dogs.” He opened the back of the van; one of the uniformed officers got behind the wheel. Inside, it smelled of gun oil and sweat. The men sat shoulder to shoulder. “I hate this shit,” Yoakum said, and two of the uniforms smiled.

Yoakum always said that.

The engine caught and the truck turned a tight radius before sliding out onto the empty street. Through the back window, the tarmac was so shiny and black, it looked like volcanic glass. Hunt spoke to the driver. “Stop a block before the turn. There’s a convenience store. It’s closed.”

Ninety seconds later, the truck eased into a deserted lot and jolted to a halt ten feet from a rusted Dumpster. Hunt looked at his watch. “Three minutes.”

“Why wait?” Yoakum asked.

Hunt ignored the question. “Three minutes.”

Fingers tightened and relaxed. Men stared at their shoes. Cross fingered the heavy sledgehammer. “Right on the lock,” Hunt said. “Then get out of my way.”

Cross nodded. Two minutes later, Yoakum nudged Hunt with an elbow. “Grunge, huh?”

“Not now, Yoakum.” Another minute passed. The first hint of train came like a tide, so thin it was transparent.

“You feel that?” Yoakum asked.

Hunt looked around the dark space. “Here we go.” He tapped the driver on the shoulder. “When I say.”

The driver nodded, and the night air began to swell. A rumble approached from the south, grew deeper, louder. The vibration climbed into an avalanche of sound, and when the whistle cried, one of the men twitched.

“You’re a freaking genius,” Yoakum said.

Hunt put a hand on the driver’s shoulder. “Now.”

The truck ran out of the lot, went left and left again, hit Huron street dead center and tore down its length as dogs lunged and howled and choked on stiff collars. Then they were there. Hunt saw a car in the driveway, one window with a light burning. The van rocked to a halt. The doors split wide and spilled cop all over the street. Yoakum and his men ran for the sides, weapons ready, black boots so lost against the dark earth that they almost seemed to float.

Thirty feet away, the train tore through the night, a thunderclap that shook the earth. Hunt gave the driver one second to catch up, then felt air tear his throat as he ran. Cross came up on his other side, and they took the yard in long strides, ate up the dirt and dead grass until the porch sagged under their weight. Hunt pointed at the space between the door handle and frame, then stepped back, flashlight in one hand, service weapon in the other. He nodded once and didn’t even hear the sledgehammer strike. It burst the door with a spray of desiccated wood and a flash of bright, tortured metal. The caboose flashed past, brought the suck of vacuum and a fading clatter; then Hunt was through.

Inside, a lamp burned above a chair with torn cushions; something fluorescent at the back spread white light near the end of the hall. Hunt checked right, then tracked the gun left. Gaps in the wall showed black rooms and humps of furniture. Something hissed to the left, static from a speaker, the thump of a needle at the end of a long, vinyl groove. Hunt stepped aside and Cross pushed in after him, then the driver. The room was hot and close. Shadows danced on tobacco-colored walls but nothing else moved.

Hunt smelled it first, an oily burn that filled his sinuses. Cross caught his eye as the driver convulsed twice and buried his nose in the crook of his arm. “Steady,” Hunt whispered, then pointed at the dark room to the left and sent the other cops that way. Hunt swung his light into the narrow hall, checked his stride at the door, then stepped into the rank gloom. The space was narrow and felt longer than it should be. Ahead, a sharp edge of white light cut a triangle on the carpet. Hunt called out: “Police. We have a warrant.”

Silent. Still. Hunt moved down the hall and came to a kitchen on his right. A long tube of white flickered over a sink filled with dishes. He checked the room, found an empty liquor bottle, and an open window with a torn screen. He turned his back, moved deeper into the gloom, and saw the smear of blood on Sheetrock. He stepped past an open door, swung his light into the room, and flies exploded from the bodies.

The woman was white, possibly in her thirties, possibly Ronda Jeffries. It was hard to tell because most of her face was gone. She wore filmy lingerie, crusted with blood. One breast hung out, the skin more gray than white. Her face was crushed, jaw broken in two or more places, left eye distended from a shattered orbit. Her torso stretched toward the hall, her legs near the bed. One arm angled above her head, and on that hand two fingers were clearly broken.

The black male was not so horribly disfigured. In life he must have been large; but not now. Now he was reduced. Trapped gas distended his stomach, making his arms and legs look unusually small. His head was staved in on the right side, giving his face a slack, unfinished appearance. He was nude, slumped in an overstuffed chair as if he’d simply decided to sit.

Hunt reached for the wall switch and flicked on the overhead light. It made everything look worse, the violence more complete. Hunt felt the other cops arrive behind him. “Nobody in,” Hunt said.

He knelt by the woman, careful of how he placed his feet. He studied the corpse from the bottom to the top. She had a pedicure, with acrylic beads set into the bright red polish. Calluses on the bottoms of her feet. Legs shaved to the knee. False nails, close to an inch long, made a spike of each finger. No visible scars or tattoos. Thirty-two seemed to be about the right age.

He did the same with the dead man, squatted by the chair and looked him over. Black. Forties. Strong. Maybe six foot two. He had old surgical scars on both knees. No jewelry. Gold fillings. He needed a shave.

Hunt stood. A glance showed work boots by the closet door, jeans, satin briefs the color of candied apples. He found the cinder block beside the bed. “Yoakum.” Hunt gestured and Yoakum crossed the room. Hunt pointed at the cinder block. One side of it was greased with coagulated blood. “I’m thinking that’s the murder weapon.”

“Looks like it.”

Hunt straightened. “Hang on.” He stepped around the dead man’s feet and over the female victim’s arm. The other cops pressed against the open door but Hunt ignored them. He knelt by the door, ran his fingers across the carpet where parallel indentations stretched the length of a cinder block. When he stood, he found Cross at the door.

“What can I do?” Cross asked.

“Tape off the yard and the street. Get Crime Scene and the medical examiner out here.” Hunt rubbed his face. “And find me a Diet Coke.” He caught Cross by the sleeve as he turned. “Not from the refrigerator in this house. And clear this hall.”

Hunt watched the hall empty, sensed Yoakum behind him and turned. Framed against the death and violence, his friend looked flushed and very alive. Hunt looked past him, and when he spoke, he kept his voice low. “It’s early, I know, but I don’t think this was premeditated.”

“Because?”

Hunt flicked a finger toward the base of the door. “Dents in the carpet. It looks like they were using the cinder block for a doorstop.” He shrugged. “Killers with a plan usually bring a weapon.”

“Maybe. Maybe he knew the cinder block would be there.”

“Too early,” Hunt agreed. “You’re right.”

“So what’s the plan?”

Hunt indicated the room with an open palm. “Seal this off until Crime Scene gets here. Canvass the street. Get a cadaver dog out here, just in case.” Hunt stopped speaking, turned into the hall. “Damn!” It came from the gut, an explosion. He slammed a fist into the wall, then stomped into the living room. When Yoakum stepped into the room, Hunt had both palms pressed against the frame of the front door. His forehead made a dull, thumping sound as he tapped it against the wood. “Damn it.” He hit his head harder.

“If you want to bleed,” Yoakum said. “There are better ways.”

Hunt turned, put his back against the splintered door. He knew that his face was naked. “This is not right.”

“Murder never is.”

“She was supposed to be here, John.” Hunt felt a sudden need for fresh air. He tore open the door, tossed words over his shoulder with something like hate. “It was supposed to end today.”

“Tiffany?”

“All of it. Everything.”

Yoakum didn’t get it, but then he did.

The hell that Hunt was living through.

His life as he knew it.