The Last Child

CHAPTER THIRTY-SIX

Cross drove with a deft hand through the outskirts of town, then north. Hunt watched neighborhoods slide by, then light industrial. His thoughts were neither of the discovered car nor of David Wilson, but of the seven small flags, and of Alyssa Merrimon. He could not shake the thought of her under that damp earth. Her young life ended, her family destroyed. Thoughts descended, too, of Hunt’s own hell: a year of sleepless nights and anguish, twelve months of failure, his own family gone to ruin. All that time, and he’d never been able to let go. What was job? What was personal?

When his phone rang, he looked at caller ID and it felt prophetic. “Hello, Katherine.”

“Any word on Johnny?” She sounded bad.

“No. Nothing.”

“He should have called by now. Johnny would have called.”

“We have units out looking for him. He’s a smart kid. We’ll find him.” He paused, aware of Cross in the car. “I’m sorry I haven’t come by to discuss this in person. I would have, but…”

“He should have called.”

“Katherine?” Concern was in his voice. She picked up on it.

“It was a bad night,” she said.

“Are you okay?”

“I’m better now, but I need my son home.”

“We’ll find him,” Hunt said.

She hesitated, and when she spoke, her voice came powder soft. “If you promise me, I’ll believe you.”

Hunt understood the desperation those words implied. He closed his eyes and pictured her in that house. She sat on Johnny’s bed, one lip caught between porcelain teeth. She was holding her breath, fingers clenched, lashes long and black on the skin beneath her eyes. “I promise,” Hunt said.

“Swear it.”

“We’ll find him.”

“Thank you, Detective.” Her breath traveled down the line. “Thank you, Clyde.” She hung up, and Hunt closed the phone. He rubbed his eyes and felt grit beneath the lids.

Cross passed a car, then eased right. “Johnny’s mom?” he asked.

“Yes.”

They drove on, left the business district behind, and rolled into open country. Cross kept his hand steady on the wheel. He cleared his throat. “You should know that rumors are flying.” Hunt stared at him. “At the station,” Cross continued. “People are talking.”

“What rumors?”

“That you think a cop’s involved with Burton Jarvis. Involved with these dead kids. Maybe with Alyssa Merrimon.”

“Rumors can be dangerous things.”

“I’m just saying-”

“I understand what you’re saying.”

A hundred yards flowed under the tires. When Cross spoke, it was with care. “The Chief told the office staff not to let you anywhere near the personnel files. You, specifically. That’s where the rumor started. I just thought you should know.”

Hunt watched the grass, the sky. He thought of the many ways he’d like to punish the Chief. “Do we have somebody at David Wilson’s car?”

“It’s in the county, so we had to bring in the sheriff. One of his deputies is on site. He knows better than to touch it.”

“I hope you’re right.”

“Not much farther.”

The vehicle was a late-model Toyota Land Cruiser, black. It was angled, nose-down, in a rocky, brush-choked ravine that had to be thirty feet deep. The trailer was still attached, though it had twisted sideways and jackknifed onto the roof. “Has anybody been down there?”

The deputy shook his head. “Sheriff said to cooperate, so that’s what I’m doing. Nobody’s been down there.”

Hunt surveyed the route down. It was loose rock and thin soil. Trees grew along the lip, weeds and brush. “You have rope in the trunk, Cross?”

“Yes.”

“Get it.”

Hunt tied off the rope and dropped it down the incline. He and Cross descended, shale sliding underfoot. Hunt was first down. A ribbon of water snaked down the gulley and ran under the car. The roof had collapsed under the weight of the trailer. The front end was damaged, paint scraped from the sides. A spiderweb of cracks stretched across the windshield. “Don’t touch anything.”

Cross peered through the window. “Keys are in the ignition.” He shifted. “It’s still in drive.”

Hunt used a handkerchief to open the passenger door. Heat flooded out. Stale car smell. The seat leather was worn shiny on the driver’s side. Backseats were down, the cargo area crammed with climbing gear. Hunt saw a motocross jacket and muddy boots. A gasoline can was wedged behind the driver’s seat. No sign of blood from an accident. “Looks like somebody ditched it.”

“A good place for it,” Cross said.

Hunt used the same handkerchief to open the glove compartment. He prodded papers with a pen, then closed it. He studied the floorboards, then peered under the seats. “Hello,” he said.

“What?”

Hunt reached under the seat with the pen and came out with a brass casing. He straightened and Cross pushed closer. “Forty-five.” Hunt pulled an evidence bag from a pocket and slipped the casing into it. He held it to the light that filtered down. “Let’s get some people out here.”

Hunt and Cross waited for the technicians to arrive. They stood on the gravel shoulder, staring at the battered vehicle. It took twenty minutes: two crime scene vans, four technicians. “I want it worked up where it is. Prints, fibers. Everything that you can do here and now, I want you to do it. Time is an issue. When you’re done, you can haul it out of there and take it to impound.”

The lead technician studied the vehicle, the slope. “Are you serious?”

“There’s rope. You’ll manage.” Hunt looked at the sky. Black clouds were rising in the south. “Just get it out of there before the rains come. I don’t want another day like the last one.” Hunt watched the technicians get to work, then called Yoakum and filled him in.

“It’s a good break,” Yoakum said.

“What about there?”

“Dr. Moore confirmed a second body.”

“And?”

“Another child. Not Alyssa Merrimon.”

Hunt forced his fingers to relax. “Rain’s coming.”

“I know. They’re saying three hours, maybe four.”

“Any media?”

“Not yet.”

Hunt looked at the wrecked Toyota, debating where he would be most useful. The crime scene techs were working up the car. The medical examiner had the bodies. “I feel like we’re missing something.”

“No shit.”

“Something obvious.”

“What do you want to do?” Yoakum asked.

“Sit tight. I’m coming to you.” Hunt disconnected.

A voice rose from the gulley. “Detective.”

The technician stood at the bottom of the ravine, next to the open driver’s side door. Hunt called down. “Yeah.”

“It looks like the car’s been wiped.” He gestured inside. “The steering wheel is clean, the door handle, the gearshift.” He raised his shoulders. “I think it’s wiped.”

“What about the casing?”

The tech stabbed a finger toward the van. “Michaels has the casing.” Hunt faced that way. The back doors of the first van stood open. Gear was mounted inside, a small table bolted to the wall. One of the techs had the casing on a sheet of clean, white paper.

“Michaels?”

“Just a sec.” He continued working. When he straightened, he said, “We have a print.”

Hunt left Cross on the street, and returned to the Jarvis site just as the medical examiner was scraping soil from a third body. Yoakum stood to the side, hands on his hips, lips pursed. He was a big man, bent at the neck, but in the damp, shadow-filled swale he looked small and depressed. “Number three,” he said.

Hunt looked at the two body bags already laid out and ready for transport. They looked flat and close to empty. “Let’s get out of here.” He turned, but Yoakum did not follow. He stared at the bags, the suspected graves with bodies yet to be exhumed.

“Somebody should die for this,” Yoakum said.

Hunt stepped back. In all of the years he’d worked with Yoakum, he’d never seen a crack in the armor. Yoakum was brutally efficient. Yoakum told jokes. He did not show feelings. “Somebody did,” Hunt said.

The man’s face was all angles in the forest light. “You think Jarvis was alone in this?”

“I don’t know.”

“They’re just babies.”

“Come on, John. Let’s do the job.”

Yoakum shook his head, and Hunt knew what he was thinking.

Somebody should die.

They slogged upslope and out of the woods. On the road, engines idling, were two news vans. They angled in next to the marked cars and the medical examiner’s van. Yoakum saw them first. “Movie people,” he said.

“Shit.”

The Chief had left two uniformed patrol officers on the street. They stood, arms spread, trying to ignore the cameras and microphones shoved in their faces. When the newscasters saw Hunt, they began directing questions his way. “Is it true you’ve located more bodies?”

“No comment.”

“Why is the medical examiner on site?”

Hunt and Yoakum pushed past the uniformed officers. Hunt raised his voice. “Nobody gets past,” he said.

“Detective Hunt-” It was the reporter from Channel Four. “Detective-”

Hunt refused to break stride. He made for his car and the reporter dogged his steps, camera crew trailing in her wake. “Is it true that you’re looking for Johnny Merrimon?” Hunt turned, unsure and suddenly furious. She pushed the microphone forward, her face in profile to the camera, eyes bright and eager. “Is it true that he’s missing?”

Hunt looked beyond her. Another news van was coming down the road. “No comment.” He put his hand on the door, opened it.

“What about allegations of police involvement with Burton Jarvis?”

“What did you say?” She repeated the question, and Hunt felt color bleed out of his face. “Get more units out here,” he said to Yoakum. “You”-he pointed at the reporter-“come with me.” Her smile grew and she gestured at her crew. “Just you,” Hunt said. He didn’t wait for a reply. He walked twenty feet down the road, knowing that she would follow. When he turned, she was three steps behind him, coiffed and flawless in a tight, red sweater. Behind her, the third news crew arrived and began prepping to film. “Why would you ask that question?”

She did not back down. “Is it true?”

“I can’t comment on an ongoing investigation. Why did you ask that question?”

“My sources are protected.” She lifted her perfect chin, put her hands on her hips.

Hunt loomed over her. “I’d rather you not spread that kind of rumor.” He stared hard into her hungry blue eyes. “It’s counterproductive.”

“Do you deny it, then?”

Hunt thought of Johnny Merrimon’s notes, the Chief’s edict about personnel files, the police-issue cuffs used to secure Tiffany Shore. He thought of the dark sedan parked on the street at Katherine’s house, the cat with its crushed vertebrae. The threat designed to keep Johnny quiet. “Your source is mistaken.”

“Can I quote you on that?”

“You can tattoo that on your forehead.” Hunt walked away and she followed. Another van rolled to a stop as Hunt rejoined Yoakum. It was from the Office of the Chief Medical Examiner in Chapel Hill.

The reporters swarmed, shouting questions.

The camera crews ate it up.

Hunt threw himself behind the wheel of his car and Yoakum spilled in next to him. The big engine caught and Hunt waited until the reporters cleared his path before he gunned it. Yoakum picked up on his mood. “What?”

“They know about Johnny.”

“How?”

“They know a cop may be involved.”

“What the hell?”

Hunt kept his eyes on the road. “Somebody’s talking.”