The Last Child

They passed a dilapidated sign that read: RAVEN COUNTY MINES HISTORICAL SITE, TWO MILES. Someone had spray-painted the word “Closed” in white paint across the front of the sign. Bullet holes pocked the surface.

The road crossed another small bridge, then turned to dirt. On the right, a battered trailer sat on blocks under the trees. It was a single-wide, old, with a beater truck parked at the front door. A propane tank was hooked onto the front of the trailer. Lawn chairs sat on a flat place by the creek. A youngish man leaned on the tailgate of the truck. In his twenties, unshaven, he was thin and burned by the sun. He held a can of beer in one hand; the bed of the truck was full of empties. Joh

“Some people don’t like strangers,” Hunt said. “And few people make it out this far. Don’t worry about it.”

A mile later, they hit the abandoned parking area. Weeds pushed through the gravel. There was a large map under a covered area and Joh

They walked for ten minutes, slowly, then passed a series of warning signs before the ground simply opened up. The shaft was twelve feet across. Abandoned track stretched away into the woods. The rails were narrow gauge and rusted, overgrown. They settled on rotting ties that still smelled of creosote and oil.

Joh

“Don’t.”

He looked at his mother, leaned out. The air that struck his face was cool and damp. He saw the rock sides drop away into blackness. “We came here in school,” he said. “There were ropes, then. To keep the kids back.”

The posts were still there, set into concrete; but the ropes were gone, either stolen or rotted. He remembered the day. Overcast. Cool. Teachers made the kids hold hands and none of the girls wanted to be stuck holding Jack’s. Joh

Jack had been standing over there.

“Joh

Joh

Hunt edged closer to the edge of the shaft and Joh

“I see pitons.” Hunt leaned out, and Joh

Joh

“This is it,” Joh

He stared at the sign and reached out a finger of his own. The letters marked the sign. The sign marked the shaft.

“She’s here.”

The name of the shaft was abbreviated, and Joh

No. Croz.

His finger came back red.

No crows.

CHAPTER FIFTY-SEVEN

Hunt called in favors and kept it quiet. In less than an hour he had two off-duty firefighters in personal vehicles loaded with gear. Trenton Moore, too, rolled personal. Hunt hiked back to the lot and used bolt cutters from his trunk to cut the cable that blocked the trail. The first firefighter drove a dark blue Dodge Ram. He forced it up the trail, branches screeching on paint, then turned the truck around and backed almost to the lip of the shaft. The second one drove a Jeep. They were unloading rope when the medical examiner parked and got out of a station wagon lean enough to save its paint. Hunt looked at Katherine to see what effect the medical examiner’s presence had on her, but she was beyond worry. She watched the big firefighters strap on web harnesses and snake thick coils of rope over the lip of the shaft. Then she sat down beside her son.

Hunt huddled with the firefighters next to the shaft. They were young men, and strong; but light was dying fast. “Down and out,” Hunt said. “We don’t know what this is, so no bullshit heroics.”

The older firefighter was in his thirties. He clipped a final carabiner onto his harness. He wore a headlamp and carried a second light clipped to the harness. Their ropes were hitched to the back of the Dodge. He leaned on both to make sure they were secure. “A walk in the park, Detective.”

“Shaft is seven hundred feet.”

“Got it.”

“Flooded at the bottom.”

The fireman nodded. “A stroll.”

Hunt stepped back, and then they were over, into the shaft. They called out to each other as they dropped, voices fading to hints, then gone. Hunt leaned out and watched the lights drop away. They lit the shaft in narrow arcs that constricted as the shaft swallowed them.

Hunt looked at Joh

It didn’t take long.

Hunt’s radio crackled. He cranked down the volume and turned his back. “Go ahead.”

“We’ve got something here.”

It was the older fireman. Hunt looked once at Katherine. “Talk to me.”

“Looks like a body.”

Joh

“Joh

That was Hunt, but Joh

But it couldn’t be Alyssa. It couldn’t be like that, not like it was with his father. That’s not how it was supposed to end. Then Hunt said, “We can’t make an identification yet.”

That was good. That sounded hopeful.

But Joh

And so did his mother.

He looked away from the cloud and she squeezed his hand. Joh

Both of them.

Together.

The body came up as the last edge of sun dipped below the tallest tree. It was in a black vinyl bag that looked too empty to hold a human being. Hunt allowed them to come closer, but kept himself between them and the bag, even as it was loaded into the back of the station wagon. A small man with expressive eyes looked once their way, then shut the tailgate and started the engine to keep the inside cool.