The Last Child

“I only had three flags,” Mike said.

“Meaning?”

Mike patted the dog. “Meaning, I’ll need more.”

Hunt stared at the wiry, leather-faced dog handler. His ears were drooping knots of cartilage, his nose long and hooked and ruddy. His lips hung with u

Mike blew his nose into a banda

Hunt looked at Yoakum. “How long did Jarvis own this property?”

Yoakum’s face was bleak. “Twenty-four years.”

“Jesus Christ.”

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

Hunt looked up, saw leaves that moved and jagged cracks of blue. “Call it in. Get everybody out here.”

Yoakum stepped away and opened his phone. Mike honked his nose one last time, then shoved the banda

“Work the dog,” Hunt said. “We’ll improvise some flags.”

“Yes, sir.” Mike made a motion with his hand and the dog moved without hesitation. Nose down, tail up, it set off in a straight, determined line.

Hunt felt a breeze on his neck.

The dump smell rose.

CHAPTER THIRTY-FOUR

The sun was less than a hint behind the trees when Joh

Jack blinked up at Joh

“Me, too.” Joh

“What do we have?”

“Ca

“Any grape soda?”

“No.”

Jack shook his head. “I’m good.

Joh

“You don’t have to come.”

Jack shrugged on the jacket. “You’re my best friend.”

“I’m serious,” Joh

“So am I.”

Joh

“Don’t go pussy on me.”

“I’m not. I’m just saying-”

“I know what you’re saying.

Joh

“Rock and roll.”

Joh

But Joh

“No.”

“The river. It bends east just outside of town, then cuts back. I think we’re about twelve miles north of town. Maybe a little east.” He pointed down the gravel road. “I think this is it.”

Jack looked around at the trees, the fields, the windswept silence. “You think this is what?”

“Let’s see.” Joh

Joh

The second gate was closed, but unlocked. It was age-stained aluminum, bowed in the middle as if backed into by a truck. It hung from a cedar post, and part of its lower edge pressed upon the road where it had buckled. “Get the gate.”

Jack got out of the truck and dragged it open. Grass bent beneath it at the road’s edge, and Joh

They dropped into the flood plain, saw the river, black and oily slow, and Joh

The road bent away from the river, and swamp began to push in from both sides. The road rose a few feet, until it was a high strip above soft earth and dark water that flashed beyond gashes in the trees. Joh

The road dipped a final time, then rose onto a causeway that crossed a wide stretch of still water. They drove into the hollow place, then up onto the hump of earth. On either side, shallow water stretched away, its surface marred by fallen trees, half submerged, and tussocks of grass that broke the surface where the bottom rose. Across the causeway, dry land clawed from the swamp. It was an island of sorts, a mile of hardwoods and vine. Joh

Joh

HUSH ARBOR, 1853.

“This is it.” Joh

“The place where they hanged those people.”

“That was a long time ago.”

“This is a death place, Joh

“Don’t let your imagination get away from you.”

“It’s up and gone.”

Joh

Jack skimmed a rock and spread ripples in the tar-colored water. The heron took wing, frog still twitching in his beak. “Do you really think somebody lives out here?”

Joh