The Last Child

“And the rest of it?”

“Just make sure she doesn’t wander off or take any more pills.”

“You’re hanging your ass out on this, Hunt, and you’re asking me to bare my fine, sculpted backside, too.”

“I know that.”

“If she’s this bad-booze, pills, whatever-then the kid should be in state custody. If something happens to him because you refused to take action…”

“That’s my risk.”

She looked out at the rain, and the worry showed. “People are talking. About you and her.”

“The talk’s unfounded.”

Hard eyes. “Is it?”

“She’s a victim,” Hunt said coldly. “And she’s married. I have no interest beyond a professional one.”

“I think you’re lying,” Taylor said.

“Maybe,” he replied. “But not to you.”

Taylor drummed her fingers on the slick, vinyl belt that held her weapon, her cuffs, her Mace. “That’s deep, Hunt. So profound it’s downright female.” The words were not unkind.

“Will you help me?”

“I’m your friend. Don’t bring me into something sordid.”

“She’s a good woman and I lost her kid. That’s it.” The moment stretched. “Joh

“A kid shows up, I’ll assume it’s him.”

Hunt nodded. “I owe you.”

He turned but she stopped him. “She must be something special.”

Hunt hesitated, but had no reason to lie. “They both are,” he said. “Her and her son.”

“Not to take anything away from these people, but why?”

Hunt pictured the kid, the way he understood his mother’s vulnerability and did what he could to protect her when no one else would. Hunt saw him buying groceries at six in the morning, throwing a rock through Ken Holloway’s window, not once, but five times, just to get him away from his mother. “I used to see them around town before all this happened. They were always together, all four of them. Church. The park. Concerts on the green. They were a beautiful family.” He shrugged, and both knew that there were things left unsaid. “I don’t like tragedies.”

Officer Taylor laughed without humor.

“What?” Hunt asked.

“You’re a cop,” she said. “Everything is a tragedy.”

“Maybe.”

“Yeah, right.” Her tone was disbelieving. “Maybe.”

A hundred yards down the road, parked in a darkened drive, Joh

Damn.

An old couple lived in the house where Joh

Joh

He slowed as he drew near his mother’s window. Her light burned yellow, and when he raised his head, he saw her sitting on the side of her bed. Tear-stained and splashed with mud, she sagged as if some vital string had been cut. She held a framed photograph, and her lips moved as she laid a finger on the glass and rolled her back to an unseen weight. But Joh

She was so weak.

But when the photograph tilted, Joh

It was his father’s.

Joh

The one his mother held was different. In it his father was young, with parted lips and flashing eyes. He wore a suit and tie. He looked like a movie star.

For an instant, the image blurred in his mind, then Joh

Joh

This was no night for weak.

A small trail took him under trees that scratched the night sky with a canopy so vast and dense it gave a whole new meaning to dark. Beyond the old growth was a tobacco farm gone to scrub. The tall trees disappeared. Poison ivy crawled over bare earth and milkweed rose taller than his head. A hundred yards in, he hopped a creek that ran swollen and brown. Briars took skin from his arms. When he came to the old tobacco barn, he stopped and listened. He’d once found two older boys inside smoking pot. That was months ago, but Joh

Inside, he stepped on an old bucket and reached above the lintel. It took all the length of his arm, but he felt it there, just where he’d left it. The bag came out with a dragging sound and a rainfall of mouse droppings. It was blue and moldy, still stained reddish-brown along the bottom seams. Joh

Then he pulled dry wood from the barn and built a fire.

A big one.

CHAPTER ELEVEN

Hunt pulled into David Wilson’s driveway as a high wind assaulted the last of the storm clouds. When he looked down he saw that small parts of the world had gone silver white: a puddle on the concrete drive, beads on the hood of his car. The street ended at the back of some faceless building that marked the edge of the college campus. Well-kept houses sheltered faculty families and a few students with parents wealthy enough to swing the rent. The lots were narrow, the trees tall and broad. Thin strips of green marked old joints in the concrete sidewalk. Weeds. Moss. The air smelled of growing things.

The rain that kept the neighbors in had also kept the police presence quiet, but Hunt saw signs that that would soon end. A man stood at the curb four houses down, a plastic bag hanging from his hand as he stared. Across the street, a cigarette sparked in the darkness. Hunt cursed under his breath and turned for the door. The house was a small Tudor with age-stained beams set into dark brick. A strip of grass separated it from its neighbor; a detached two-car garage filled the back corner. Hunt saw Yoakum through an undraped window and made for the door.