The Last Child

by John Hart

“Well …” Jack looked around, and Johnny threw a rock through the window. “Jesus, Johnny! Freaking warn me next time.”

  “Sorry.”

  “Who throws a rock through his own window?”

  Johnny turned, his voice intense. “Don’t you get it?” He pointed up the road, back the way they’d come. “The cops know I ran off from Steve’s, so they’ll call Social Services for sure. They’ll put me some place I don’t even want to think about. They’ll lock me down and that’ll be it. Game over.”

  “Huh?” Jack was drunk.

  Johnny gripped his shoulder and squeezed. “This is my last chance to find her. You think I give a crap about Ken’s window? Steve’s van? None of that matters.”

  Johnny released his friend with such force that Jack staggered. Johnny picked up a broken branch and used it to knock shards from the window frame. When he tossed the branch down, he made sure Jack knew who was in charge. “Wait here,” he said. “Keep an eye out.”

  He climbed through the broken window, flicked on the overhead light. The place looked the same but felt different. A pang of loss stabbed him in the heart, but he ignored it. Going first to his mother’s room, he pulled open the bedside table drawer and scooped out the cash he found there. Two hundred bucks, give or take. He took two twenties and put the rest back. In his room, he opened his backpack and stuffed in clothing and a blanket. From his closet, he took two jackets, one made of denim, the other of cotton twill. Turning to the bed, he scooped up his copy of An Illustrated History of Raven County. It fell open to the page dedicated to John Pendleton Merrimon, Surgeon and Abolitionist. For a second, he touched the picture of his namesake, then he turned the page. The bold heading read: “The Mantle of Freedom: Raven County’s First Freed Slave.” There was the story of Isaac Freemantle, and there was a map.

  On the map was the river and a trail.

  The trail led to a place.

  Johnny snapped the book closed and stuffed it in the pack.

  The gun went in on top of it.

  In the kitchen, he found canned food and peanut butter, a large flashlight and a box of matches. He pulled bread off the shelf, two cans of grape soda from the refrigerator. For an instant he considered writing his mother a note, but the moment passed. If she knew what he planned, she would only worry more. He walked outside and tossed the cotton jacket to Jack. “Here.” Johnny pulled on the jean jacket. Jack was starting to sober up. Johnny saw it in his damp, miserable face, in the wary manner in which he looked down the stretch of lonely road. “You don’t have to come,” Johnny said. “I can do this by myself.”

  “Johnny, man. I don’t even know what you’re doing.”

  Johnny looked into the deep woods behind the house. He thought of the gun that weighed down the pack. “I’ll tell you when you’re sober. If you still want to come, then you can come.”

  “Where are we going now?”

  “Camping.”

  Jack looked blank, and Johnny put a hand on his shoulder. His mouth was a sharp line, his eyes very bright. “Think of it as an adventure.”

  CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO

  Hunt stood by the fireplace and kept a wary eye on Katherine Merrimon. She sat on the sofa in Steve’s living room, shaking and flushed. Every few minutes she would stand and stare through the window. Yoakum was in the kitchen. So was Cross. Steve paced and threw frightened looks at Hunt. He tried to speak to Katherine, but she slapped him. “It’s your fault,” she said.

  “That damn kid.”

  She slapped him again.

  “I’m going outside,” Steve said. “I need a smoke.”

  “Don’t come back.” She didn’t even look at him.

  “Katherine …”

  She stared into the dark and Hunt stepped forward. “Go have your smoke, Steve. Give us a few minutes.”

  He opened the door. “Fine. Whatever.”

  Hunt waited for the door to close, then took Katherine’s arm and led her to the sofa. “We’ll find him.”

  “You don’t know that.”

  “I will do everything that I can do to bring your son home. That’s a promise.” Both of them recognized the empty nature of the promise. Katherine folded her hands in her lap. “Nothing matters more to me, right now. Do you believe me?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “I promise, Katherine. I swear.”

  She nodded, shoulders turned in, hands still folded into a small, perfect package. “Do you think somebody took him?”

  Hunt could barely hear her. “No,” he said. “Absolutely not.”

  “Maybe somebody decided that a threat wasn’t good enough.”

  Hunt turned on the sofa. “There was no forced entry, no sign of a struggle. Steve’s truck was taken. Johnny knows how to drive. He had access to the key.”

  “I need him back. Do you understand?”

  “Yes.”

  “I need my son home.”

  Hunt watched her stare through the glass. Yoakum appeared in the kitchen door. “Clyde,” he said, and motioned with a finger.

  Hunt walked to the kitchen. “What is it?”

  Yoakum led Hunt into the kitchen and stopped at the small table. “You see anything here that bothers you?” Hunt looked at the table. It was mostly bare. There were a few magazines, some mail, yesterday’s newspaper and an open phone book. He was about to shake his head when Yoakum said: “Phone book.”

  It took a second, then Hunt saw it. Levi Freemantle, 713 Huron Street.

  “Oh, shit.”

  “Why would he care about Levi Freemantle?”

  “He thinks Freemantle knows where Alyssa is.”

  “Why would he think that?”

  “He thinks that David Wilson might have told him before he died.” Hunt closed the book. “This is my fault.”

  “No one could have guessed he’d do something like this.”

  “I could have.” Hunt scrubbed his hands over his face. “The kid’s capable of just about anything. It was stupid of me to think he’d just let this go.”

  “I can be there in eight minutes.”

  “No. The kid trusts me, more or less. Better if I go.”

  “Well, you’d better hump it.”

  They went back into the living room, but Steve burst in before they made it across the rug. He pointed a finger at Katherine, then closed his hand into a fist. His lips were drawn, his face red. He pumped his hand, as if trying to control his temper.

  “What is it?” Hunt asked.

  Steve cut his eyes to Hunt. His words were clipped, and he stabbed a finger toward the street. “That little shit stole my gun, too.”

  —

  Ten minutes later, Hunt had been through every room in Freemantle’s house. He called Yoakum from the living room. “I missed him.”

  “Any sign he was there?”

  Hunt stepped onto Freemantle’s porch and fingered the torn, yellow tape. Up the street, dogs howled. “Tape’s down. Door’s open.”

  “Should we put an all-points on the truck?”

  Hunt considered. “What if Johnny was right? What if the sixth man was a cop?”

  “I don’t see how that’s possible.”

  “But what if? What if we put out an all-points and the wrong cop finds him?”

  “You think we should keep this quiet?”

  “I don’t know. Thinking this way feels twenty kinds of wrong.”

  “I’m with you. Hang on a sec. What?” The phone was muffled. Hunt heard muted voices, then Yoakum was back. “Aw, shit.”

  “What?”

  “Cross says he already called it in.”

  “Nobody authorized that.”

  “He says a runaway kid in a stolen truck carrying a stolen gun is a no-brainer. Frankly, I can’t disagree with him, especially since …”

  Yoakum paused and Hunt imagined him stepping away from Katherine. “Since what?”

  A door closed. Yoakum spoke in a whisper. “Since he’s out looking for a stone-cold killer.”

  — />
  Johnny had to go two roads over to find the entrance to the abandoned tobacco farm. The gate was unlocked, the track overgrown with weeds and low brambles. Jack closed the gate behind them. He’d never been to the old barn. “Where are we going?”

  “You’ll see.” Headlights cut into the darkness. Feathers of pine reached in and turned from black to green. Sap glistened on knotted trunks, then winked out as they passed.

  They bounced through ruts and deep gouges made by spring rains. When they came out of the woods and into the abandoned fields, the sky opened above them: high, lonely stars and a trace of moon behind tissue clouds. “This was a plantation once,” Johnny said. “Then just a bunch of farms.” The track cut right, straightened, then split. Johnny went left. “You can still see where the big house burned.” He jerked his head. “Over there. Chimney stones in a pile. The old well shaft.”

  “Yeah?”

  “It’s overgrown now. I found it six months ago.”

  The barn loomed ahead, a wall of grayed-out logs on a foundation of chiseled granite. Milkweed rose, pink and green, and fingers of ivy clawed up the length of the back corner. Black showed where chinking had crumbled to dust. Johnny pulled around to the other side and stopped. The doorway gaped. Charred wood and ash marked the fire pit. Johnny put the truck in park. “Give me the pack.” Jack shrugged it off. “Don’t turn off the engine until I say.” Johnny dropped the pack on the ground and pulled out the flashlight. He disappeared inside the barn, found the moldy blue backpack and three stubs of candle. “Alright,” he said.

  Jack switched off the engine and the headlights winked out. The night collapsed to a twitching beam of light that flashed on white skin, wide eyes, and filthy clothes. “Ken’s house is that way.” Johnny pointed with the flashlight. “Through the trees. Not far.”

  “How’d you find all this?”

  Johnny squatted and dug the matches out of the pack. “Getting out of the house when things got bad. Looking for snakes.”

  “About the snakes—”

  “Hold this.” Johnny handed the light to Jack, then put the candles on a slab of granite and lit them. Jack watched and said nothing, but Johnny felt him there. “I’ve slept out here more than a few times. It’s not bad. Inside is full of spiders. Mosquitoes are worse out here.”

  “I’ll take the mosquitoes.”

  “Me, too.”

  Jack put the light on the blue pack. “What’s that?”

  “Let’s make a fire.” Johnny stood and began foraging for wood. Eventually, Jack helped him. They gathered twigs and fallen branches. The fire was still small when Jack found the scrap of Bible. It was pebbled leather, black; part of the spine, two inches long and charred. Some of the gold letters could still be seen. Jack held it for a long minute, and Johnny could tell that he knew what it was. He watched Jack’s tiny fingers trace the letters, then he stood, took it from him and threw it on the fire. Rocking back on his heels, Johnny watched his friend. Jack was not what most would call a good boy, but Johnny knew for a fact that he believed in the devil.

  “I’m not going to burn in hell, if that’s what you’re thinking.”

  Jack’s small arm moved. He pointed at the fire. “What are you doing, Johnny?” His head shifted and red light filled up his eyes. “I’ve been good and I’ve been quiet. About all of this.” He moved his fingers over his face again. “What they said in the paper. The things you’ve been keeping secret from me. Snakes and charms and voodoo shit.” He shook his head. “But this ain’t right. Whatever this is, you can’t go burning Bibles. Even I know that.”

  “It’s just a book.”

  “You take that back.”

  Johnny raised his voice. “It’s just a book and it doesn’t work. It doesn’t make a difference.” Jack’s mouth opened, but Johnny rode his words down. “The preacher said it would, but he was full of shit, too.”

  “I think I might be sick.”

  “Well, go over there if you’re going to do it.” Johnny stabbed a finger at the darkness. “I’m going to eat some dinner and I don’t need to be smelling your puke.”

  Jack closed his eyes, and when he opened them, he looked better, less green. When he spoke, Johnny knew that he’d decided to let it go. “What’s that?” Jack asked, pointing at the pack.

  An eddy of smoke wafted against Johnny’s face and he narrowed his eyes. “You really want to know?”

  “I asked, didn’t I?”

  Johnny unhooked the straps and dumped the contents of the bag on the ground. He separated the bundles of vegetation. There were four of them, each tied with string. He put them in a row, caught Jack’s eye and touched each in turn. “Cedar,” he said. “Pine. Spruce. Laurel.”

  “Yeah. So?”

  “They’re supposed to be sacred.” He touched them again, each in turn. “Wisdom. Strength. Courage. Perseverance. You’re supposed to burn them.”

  “Is that an Indian thing?”

  “Indian. Some other things.” Johnny scooped up the bundles and threw them into the darkness beyond the fire. They landed with a crunch, and Johnny spat on the dirt. “You hungry?” he asked. “I’m hungry.”

  They ate peanut butter sandwiches and drank grape soda. Jack kept his eyes on his friend and looked away when Johnny caught him staring. Johnny ignored him. He didn’t want to talk about the things he’d done and he sure as hell wasn’t going to let Jack judge him. He wiped peanut butter fingers on his jeans and picked up the gun. It was heavy and smooth. He opened it up and saw that it was loaded.

  “There’s no safety on that,” Jack said. “Careful where you point it.”

  Johnny snapped the cylinder closed. “You know guns?”

  Jack rolled his shoulders. “Dad’s a cop.”

  “Can you shoot?”

  “Straight enough, I guess.”

  Johnny slipped the gun back into its holster. They fell into silence and night sounds rose up around them. Moths danced about the candle flames and their shadows licked the ground. Jack tossed his can into the fire to see if it would burn; paint blistered and burst. “Johnny?”

  “Yeah.”

  Jack kept his eyes on the fire. “Do you think cowardice is a sin?”

  “Are you scared?”

  “Do you think it’s a sin?” Insistent. Thin jaw clenched.

  Johnny tossed his own can into the fire. Long seconds passed and he didn’t blink until he felt his eyes go bone dry. “That man at the river, David Wilson. He knew where my sister was. He knew, and I ran away before he could tell me.” Johnny looked at his friend. “So, yeah. I think cowardice is a sin.”

  “God or no God.” Jack’s eyes were wide and still.

  “That’s right.”

  Jack stared into the dark and wrapped his arms around his knees. “What are we doing out here, Johnny?”

  Johnny poked at the fire with a stick. “If I tell you, there’s no wimping out. No take-backs. So you need to tell me now if you’re in or out.”

  “Hard to do if I don’t know what we’re talking about.”

  Johnny lifted his shoulders. “I’ll take you home right now, but not if you know what I’m doing.”

  “Jesus, Johnny. I wouldn’t tell anybody.”

  “In or out?”

  Across the fire, beyond the curtain of smoke and scorched air, Jack scrubbed a forearm across his nose. Orange glazed his eyes until he turned his head, then the color fell away and he was just a dirty boy with a washed-out tan and hair that stood out in all directions. “You’re pretty much all I have that’s good, Johnny. I don’t guess there’ll be any take-backs.” He turned back and his eyes were so simple and brown they made Johnny think of a dog’s eyes. “May as well tell me.”

  “Come here.” Johnny dug into the pack from home. He pulled out the book on Raven County but did not open it. Jack came around the fire, sat in the dirt, and Johnny explained it from the beginning: David Wilson going off the bridge and what he’d said; Levi Freemantle, how he’d grabbed Johnny up by the rive
r; the blood Johnny had found in Freemantle’s house.

  Jack bobbed his head. “Dang, Johnny. That was in the papers, too. Same day as you. Not his name, I don’t think, but they found bodies in that house. Two people with their heads bashed in.”

  “I kind of figured somebody was dead when I saw all the blood.”

  Jack’s face scrunched up. “Was there a lot of it?”

  “It was everywhere, and I mean like paint.”

  The boys were silent for a minute.

  Like paint.

  Then Jack shook his head. “I don’t understand what this has to do with us.”

  Johnny clicked on the flashlight and opened the book to the page about Isaac Freemantle. He pointed at the map. “Here’s town.” He moved his finger north, made a circling motion. “This is mostly swamp.” He moved his finger slightly. “This is where the granite rises up and you have that huge stretch of woods where those old mines are. You remember?”

  “Yeah. Fourth-grade field trip. They made us hold hands so nobody wandered off and fell into a hole.” He was embarrassed, Johnny knew, by the memory. Nobody had wanted to hold Jack’s bad hand. There had been pushing and shoving. Some girl had said it was gross.

  Johnny traced his finger south, to the trail that ran beside the river. “This is where I ran into him, right about there. Over here is the bridge.”

  “Got it.”

  Johnny continued tracing the path along the river. His finger stopped near the edge of the swamp. There were two words there: Hush Arbor. “This is where he was going. This is where we’ll find him.”

  “You’re talking over me, man.”

  Johnny closed the book. “This goes back, okay. Back to slave times.”

  “What?”

  “Slave times. Concentrate. See, slaves came over with their own religions. African stuff. Tribal stuff. Animal gods and spirits in the water, fetishes, charms. Root work, they called it. Hoodoo. But that was good for the white folks, just fine, in fact, because nobody here wanted them learning about Jesus and God and stuff. They didn’t want a bunch of slaves thinking they were equal in the eyes of God. Do you see? If you’re equal, then nobody should own you. That was dangerous thinking if you owned slaves.”

  “So, they didn’t want the slaves to learn.”