by John Hart
“Because Freemantle was sent here for a reason.”
“What reason?”
Jack was terrified. “God knows.”
No crows, Johnny thought. God knows.
“He kept saying it. Even in his sleep, he said it. No crows. God knows. You remember the name of the mine shaft? No Croz. I can’t get it out of my head, Johnny. God knows, don’t you see? God knows what I did.” Jack broke off. “The last thing Freemantle said to me … the last thing he said … Oh, shit.”
“What?”
Jack sat down on the stone. “God knows the beauty of her soul.” Jack raised his small hand. “I’m going to burn in hell, Johnny.” The hand came down, and Jack was begging. “If somebody asked, would you say something good?”
He was weeping.
“Johnny?”
Johnny turned and climbed up the bank. Jack’s voice followed him, small, then smaller.
“Johnny?”
Nothing. Wind in the grass.
“Johnny?”
CHAPTER SIXTY
Hunt drove fast, blue lights hot behind the grille. Yoakum, beside him, was iron-faced. The dashboard clock read ten after one in the morning. Hunt had arranged an emergency meeting with the district attorney and the magistrate. It took an hour, but he had an arrest warrant in his coat pocket and two hand-picked uniforms rolling backup. Nobody else knew. Not the Chief. No other cops. They were running this thing dark, just in case Cross had friends who would go to the mat. “Five minutes,” Hunt said.
For the third time, Yoakum checked the loads in his borrowed gun.
Hunt’s phone rang. He glanced at caller ID then answered. The call was brief, and when it was over, he did not look at Yoakum. “Medical examiner,” he said. “Dental records match. It’s Alyssa.”
Silence. Rubber on pavement.
“I’m sorry, Clyde.”
“Four minutes.”
Thirty seconds later, Hunt’s phone rang again. He didn’t recognize the number on ID, but he answered it, then listened. “Where are you, Johnny? Settle down. I’m here. No. No. Take your time.”
Hunt listened for a full minute, saying nothing. When the kid was finished, the last piece clicked into place and Hunt had the picture. All of it. A perfect fit. “Okay, Johnny. I’ve got it and I will handle it. No, I will handle it tonight. Right now. Where are you?” A pause. “No. I don’t want you in the lobby. I want you in the room, now. I have it covered. We’ll talk tomorrow.”
He hung up again and Yoakum waited ten seconds. “What?”
Hunt gave it to him in short, hard sentences. The way Alyssa died. How she ended up in that shaft.
Yoakum had to chew on it for a minute. “She died in an accident?”
“Gerald was drunk. Cross hid the body to protect his son. He dumped her in that shaft. All alone.” He sucked in a deep breath. “Jesus.”
“You okay?”
“We bring Gerald in, too.”
“We don’t have a warrant for Gerald.”
“Suspicion of manslaughter. It’s enough to question him.”
“That Johnny’s a tough kid,” Yoakum said.
“Yes.”
“Cross is so going down.”
“One minute.”
Hunt turned into Cross’s neighborhood.
—
Johnny opened the motel room with the key card. Two lamps burned. His mother sat on the edge of the nearest bed. She was drawn but clear-eyed.
“I couldn’t call Hunt,” she said, and stood. “He would never let me have you back.”
Johnny stepped in and closed the door.
“You left me,” she said, and Johnny saw how rigid she held herself.
“I will never do it again.”
“How can I believe that?”
“I promise.”
She crossed the room and put her arms around him. “Promise me again.”
Johnny smelled soap and clean hair. “I promise.”
She squeezed him hard, and when she stepped back, Johnny told her what he knew. It wasn’t easy, and it took some time. Alyssa was dead, but it was an accident. He explained it twice, and the words rolled off her lips.
An accident.
They were quiet for a long time after that.
Quiet but together.
—
Hunt got the domestic disturbance call when they were two blocks out. “Be advised, neighbor reports a weapon at the scene.”
“Shit.”
Hunt hit the siren and the patrol car behind him did the same. Two quick turns and Cross’s house was up on the right. Lights burned at the roofline, big spots on the corners, lights on poles by the sidewalk. The white truck was nose-first and crumpled against the side of the house. Grass was torn up behind it, shrubbery plowed flat. One taillight blinked on and off. Red. Red. Red. Detective Cross was in the yard; so was his wife and Gerald. Cross was yelling. His wife was on her knees, Bible in hand, clenched in prayer.
Jack had the pistol.
He was pointing it at his father.
Hunt and Yoakum came out of the car the same time as the uniformed officers. Weapons came out. “Control your fire,” Hunt said. “I know the kid. I don’t want him hurt.”
The other cops heard him, but the guns stayed up. Hunt kept his own weapon in the holster. He eased onto the grass, hands out to his side. Jack was flushed and shaking. Tears stained his face. Cross was playing the stern father. “Jack, you give me that gun right now! Right this minute! I mean it!” Cross saw Hunt coming and held out one hand. “I’ve got this,” he said. “It’s under control.” Back to his son. “Jack, you see this? Somebody called the police. It’s time for this to end. Give me the gun.”
Behind him, Jack’s mother was rocking on her knees. Jack looked at her, and one hand found a silver cross that hung around his neck. Her voice rose and it was like she was speaking in tongues. “Don’t, Momma.” Jack’s face twisted. “Just don’t.” He tore off the cross and flung it at her.
“Give me the gun, Jack.”
Jack tore his gaze from his mother. His father was closer, now. Five feet. Four. “It’s your fault.” Jack’s voice was a whisper.
“Son.”
He stabbed the gun at his father. “I’m going to hell, and it’s your fault.”
Jack stepped closer as his mother wailed. Cross raised his hands. “Son …”
“God forgives the little sins.”
Hunt saw the hammer move, but he was too far away. “No.” He ran for Jack. The hammer rose and fell; Cross screamed as it dropped with a dry click. Jack pulled the trigger again, but nothing happened.
Hunt took the kid down.
The gun flew out of his hand and Cross reached for it. “Don’t touch that,” Hunt told him. He was flat on the grass, Jack pinned beneath him. “Don’t touch it and don’t move.”
“What do you mean?”
“None of you move.” Hunt hauled Jack to his feet and handed him over to Yoakum. “Gently,” he said, and Yoakum lead the boy away, crying and snot-faced.
“I want to talk to Johnny.” Jack struggled at the door of the car. He thrashed and yelled, “I want to talk to Johnny.” Yoakum’s hand on the top of his head. “Johnny! I want to talk to Johnny!”
The door closed, cutting him off, and he beat his head four times against the glass. Hunt picked up the gun and cracked the cylinder. Empty. He put the gun in his coat pocket. Cross risked a step, hands out. “He’s drunk. He has a problem. We’re getting him help.”
“You need to come with me,” Hunt said. “To the station.”
“He’s my son, Hunt. I’m not going to press charges.” Cross tried a weak smile.
Hunt remained expressionless, which took work. “You and Gerald,” Hunt said, hand very near his holstered weapon. “My asking is a courtesy.” He gestured to the neighboring yards, where several people stood and watched. Hunt stepped closer but did not lower his voice. “I have the story from Jack. What happened to Alyssa. Gerald’s involvement. Everything.” Hunt gave him one
heartbeat. “We found her body a few hours ago.”
Cross looked at his son, his still weeping wife.
“Let’s do this right,” Hunt said.
When Cross looked back, the mask dropped off. His face was pure calculation. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“David Wilson found Alyssa’s body. At first, I thought he must have called the station and talked to you by pure accident, but there was no record in the phone logs, and nobody gets that lucky.”
“You’re wrong.”
“Save it. I talked to Patricia Defries tonight. She told me everything.” And she had. Cross had busted her on another check fraud scam. That would be her third felony, her third strike. If convicted, she’d pull twelve years, minimum. So Cross had made it easy for her. He wanted to know if anybody came around the mines. Anybody. Any time. She said she didn’t know why Cross cared about the mines, and Hunt believed her; not that he told her that. He liked her talking, liked her scared.
Hunt said, “I explained to her that check fraud is a much smaller charge than accessory to murder before the fact. I made her know that I was serious, and that she would go down with you. She talked and she’ll testify. She’ll tell how you showed up at the mines after she called, how five minutes later, Wilson tore past on his dirt bike with you right on his tail. She made note of the time. Johnny Merrimon saw Wilson come over the bridge railing fifteen minutes later.”
“She’s a crook and a drunk. No kind of witness.”
Hunt made a show of looking at the line of cars in the driveway. “Where’s your personal vehicle?” He asked. “Dodge Charger, right? How many body shops will I have to call before I find it? It won’t be local, of course. But Wilmington maybe? Raleigh? One of the big cities, I should think. But we’ll find it. Damage to the front fender. The paint will match what we found at the bridge.”
“I want a lawyer.”
Hunt motioned for the uniformed officers. “You’re under arrest for the murder of David Wilson. You have the right to remain silent—”
“I know my rights.”
“Anything you say can and will be used against you.”
“Wait a minute. Wait a minute.” Cross licked his lips. “I need to talk to you. Just to you. Just for a second.” Hunt hesitated. “You want to do the right thing, right? That’s what you’re all about, right? God damn Boy Scout.” Hunt held up a hand and the uniforms backed off. “You should think about what you’re doing. You should think real hard.”
“I don’t need to think. I have a warrant.”
Cross leaned in. His eyes flashed at the uniforms over Hunt’s shoulder and his whisper put hot breath in the air. “Your son was in the car, too.”
Hunt stepped away. “He was not.”
“He was in the front seat when Alyssa went under the tires.”
“I don’t believe you.”
“How’s he been the past year? Your boy? Normal? Same kid you had a year ago? Oh, let me guess. Sullen? Edgy? Gone dark on you, has he? Do the right thing, Hunt. Nothing more important than a man’s family. That’s what it’s all about.”
Hunt looked around the yard. Jack was a red splotch in the back of a cop car. Gerald was on the verge of tears. Cross’s wife had her eyes closed as she rocked and begged and wailed. “I don’t think your family is doing too well, Cross.”
“He’s your only child, right?”
Hunt held his gaze for three seconds.
“Do the right thing,” Cross said.
Hunt stepped back and motioned to the uniformed officers. “You have the right to an attorney.”
The cuffs came out.
Cross fought, and then went down, screaming. He lost his slippers as they dragged him to the car.
—
It was close to six when Hunt left the police station. Cross refused to talk, but the words spilled out of Gerald like a tide. It was guilt. Pure and simple.
The boy was eaten up.
The sun made a dim blush when the streets rose up, but Hunt’s house was still in a pocket of dark. He let himself in and stood quietly in the kitchen. The refrigerator hummed. A garage door opened somewhere down the street.
Hunt put his gun on the counter, his badge. The stairs sighed under his feet and he felt warm air when he opened the door to his son’s room. The boy was a tangle of blankets, blond hair, and lost innocence.
The past.
So many good things.
Hunt pulled a chair next to the bed and sat. He pressed fingertips against his eyes and saw the same crazy sparks. This did not have to be an ending. There was power in choice. Hunt believed that. It was never too late to do the right thing.
His lips moved in silence.
Never too late.
Hunt watched his son sleep, and his lips moved again.
Repeating it.
A prayer of his own.
It took Allen twenty minutes to wake up, and they were the longest twenty minutes of Hunt’s life. Twice he rose, but twice he stayed, until light, pale and pink, touched his son on the face. His eyes were very innocent when they opened. “Hey, Dad. What’s going on?” He scrubbed at his face and sat up against the pillows.
“You know I love you, right?”
“Yeah. Sure. What—”
“If you were ever in trouble, I’d do everything in my power to help you. You know that, too. No matter how bad things are, I’m your dad. I’ll help you. You know that, don’t you, Allen?”
“Sure. Of course.”
Hunt kept himself still. “Are you in trouble, son?”
“What? No.”
Hunt leaned in. “Is there anything you need to tell me? Anything at all. I’m on your side. You and me. Okay?”
“No, Dad. Nothing. What’s going on?”
Hunt was dying on the inside. He put a hand on his son’s arm. “I’m going to lie down for a while.” He stood, looked down. “It’s a big day, Allen.”
“What do you mean?”
Hunt stopped in the door. “I’ll be awake if you need me.”
Hunt crossed the hall and stretched out on his own bed. For a moment, the room spun, but he fought it.
The knock came sooner than he’d dared to hope.
CHAPTER SIXTY-ONE
Johnny slept for seven hours, woke briefly to eat, then went back down. He heard his mother, once, talking to Hunt, but it felt like a dream. He heard angry voices and the sound of something breaking. There was talk of Alyssa and of Hunt’s son.
“I don’t know what to say, Katherine.”
That was Hunt.
A long silence. “I need to take a walk.”
“Katherine …”
“Will you stay with Johnny?”
The door closed and Johnny woke. It was not a dream. Hunt stood at the window watching her walk away. Johnny sat up and the dream came back to him. “Was Allen really in the car with Gerald?”
“You heard?”
“Is it true?”
“Allen wasn’t driving.”
“But he knew what happened and didn’t tell.”
“Gerald’s dad was a cop and Allen was scared, but I can’t make excuses for him, Johnny. He was wrong.” A pause. “He turned himself in voluntarily. He’s in custody. He’ll be punished. So will Jack.”
“Punished, how?”
“It’s up to the juvenile courts. They may go away for a while.”
“Prison?”
“It’s not like that.”
Johnny got out of bed. “I’m going to take a shower,” he said.
“Okay, Johnny.”
The water was weak but hot. Johnny washed twice, then studied the stitches in his chest. The skin was red and puckered; the scars would last forever. He combed his hair with his mother’s comb. Hunt was still in the room when Johnny came out.
“Better?” Hunt asked.
“She’s still gone?”
“She’s trying to decide if she hates me.”
Johnny nodded. It was a very grown-up thing for
Hunt to say. “May I ask you a question?”
“Yes.”
They sat side by side on the edge of the bed. Johnny’s fingers were shriveled from the long shower. His palms peeled where a blister had burst. “Jack believes that some things happen for a reason.”
“Are you asking about Alyssa?”
Johnny wasn’t sure he could say what he meant, so he shrugged. He felt Hunt tense, then relax, like he’d made a decision.
“We found seven bodies buried in the woods behind Jarvis’s house. Children. Did you know that?”
“Mom told me.”
Hunt hesitated again, then pulled a photograph from his coat pocket. It was Meechum’s autopsy photo. It showed him from the chest up, undressed on a metal table. “Is this the man you saw with Jarvis?”
His face had hollowed out in death and he had no color at all, but Johnny recognized him. He nodded.
“Why did you think he was a cop?”
“He carried handcuffs and a pistol on his belt. That’s what cops do.”
Hunt put the photo away. “He was a security guard at the mall. He and Jarvis served together in Vietnam. Both got dishonorable discharges at the same time. There were rumors—”
“What kind of rumors?”
“Bad ones.”
Johnny shrugged. He’d heard the stories anyway.
“They were bad men, Johnny. They did bad things for evil reasons and they would have kept on doing them if you hadn’t come along when you did.”
“I didn’t save Tiffany. I told you that.”
Hunt stared through the window. “If Jarvis had not been busy with you on the street, Tiffany would not have made it past the house. He’d have caught her and he’d have killed her. She’d be in the woods with the rest of them. Jarvis and Meechum would have kept on killing. Maybe they’d have killed a few more. Maybe they’d have killed a lot more. What I do know is that they were stopped because you were on that street when you were.”
Johnny felt Hunt’s eyes on the top of his head, but he could not look up.
“You would not have been on the street if Alyssa hadn’t died.” Hunt laid a hand on Johnny’s shoulder. “Maybe that’s the reason, Johnny. Maybe, Alyssa had to die so other kids would not.”
“Jack thought Freemantle came because God sent him.”