The Last Child

CHAPTER FIFTY-TWO

Hunt made it through the line of reporters without serious incident. Maybe it was something in his face. Maybe it was the wall of blue that stiffened to attention as he stormed past. One reporter had already slipped past the line, and that was a screwup. One more time, and somebody would be fired. No question. Hunt would see to it himself.

Little sun touched the forest floor, which remained spongy and damp. The air itself was a moist stew. Hunt pushed hard down the slope.

Stopping at the edge of the swale, he could feel the difference in the air. Finding an adult victim was unexpected, and no one knew what to make of it. Finding Johnny’s father took things to the next level.

People were processing.

Hunt saw two medical examiners from the Chapel Hill office huddled over a fresh excavation halfway across the bowl. That would be the next body. He ignored them. To the right, a cluster of tense people stood beside a seven-foot camp table that canted slightly with the slope of the ground. Cross. The Chief. Trenton Moore, the Raven County medical examiner. All three stared at Hunt, waiting.

The body bag on the ground seemed longer than the others.

More full.

Hunt walked over, stopped five feet from the bag, and squatted on his heels. He remembered Spencer Merrimon, the way he’d stayed strong for his wife, the way he tamped down the guilt and pretended that it wasn’t killing him from the inside out. Seems like he’d always had a hand on his son’s shoulder, a quiet word of thanks for the men working to bring his daughter home. Hunt had liked the man, maybe even respected him. “Is this him?”

Every eye turned to the bag. “We think so.”

“How can you tell?”

“Over here,” the Chief said.

Hunt stood and they all turned to the camp table. It was brushed metal, hinged in the middle. Gear cluttered the surface: laptops, a camera bag and tripod, a few notebooks, a box of latex gloves. A number of items were sealed in plastic evidence bags. The Chief pointed at a stained wallet. “This was in his pocket. It’s nylon with a Velcro seal. That helped preserve the contents.” Next to the wallet, the contents had been laid out, each in its own evidence bag. Driver’s license. Credit cards. A few grungy bills, some receipts. A claim check for the cleaners. Some papers, folded at one time, but open now. Hunt saw a photo of Katherine and the kids. It, too, was stained, but the faces were recognizable. Johnny looked shy, but Katherine was beaming. So was Alyssa. “Christ,” Hunt said.

“We’ll have the medical examiner run dental records to confirm, but I don’t see any reason to doubt that it’s him.”

“Doc?” Hunt looked at Trenton Moore.

“The body is male, age appropriate.”

Hunt looked out at the remaining flags, the men stooped above the half-exhumed body of some unnamed soul. It was now very likely that one of these bodies was Alyssa Merrimon. He turned back to the table and examined the items from the wallet. He looked through the receipts-meaningless-then came to two pieces of paper that had been folded so many times the creases were worn through. The first was a child’s drawing, stick figures of a man holding the hand of a child. “I Love my Daddy,” was written in an awkward hand. The bottom corner read, “Alyssa, age six.”

Hunt turned to the second page.

“Addresses,” Cross said. “We’ll check them when we get back to the station.”

Hunt saw nine addresses. The handwriting was bad, but legible. There were no names, no phone numbers. Addresses. But Hunt felt the cold tingle in the back of his skull that told him he’d been right about Spencer Merrimon. Why his body was here. Why he died, if not exactly how. Hunt knew the addresses. He knew the names that went with them.

Registered sex offenders.

The bad ones.

Cross gestured at the body bag. He was unshaven, lips turned down. “I thought this Merrimon guy ran off.”

“No.” Hunt placed the page on the table.

“I thought the wife blamed him so bad he skipped town.”

Hunt looked again across the field of shallow graves. He lifted the child’s drawing. The crayon was red. Lopsided hearts hung in the open spaces. “No,” he said again. “This man knocked on the wrong door.” A perfect silence, Hunt’s heart swelling with respect. “This man died looking for his daughter.”