The Last Child (13 page)

“Good. Tell me what else you know about David Wilson.”

“You can start with this.”

Yoakum crossed an oriental rug that was probably older than the house. He led Hunt to a wall that held a number of framed photographs, each of which showed basically the same thing: David Wilson with a different beautiful woman. “Bachelor?” Hunt asked.

“You tell me. Engine parts on the dining room table. Steak and beer in the fridge, and not much else. Seventeen condoms in the drawer of the bedside table.”

“You counted?”

Yoakum shrugged. “It’s my brand.”

“Ah, humor.”

“Who’s joking?”

“Any indication of where or how he might have crossed paths with Tiffany Shore?”

“If there’s a great big clue in this house somewhere, I haven’t discovered it yet. If he really did find the kid, I’m guessing it was by accident.”

“Alright,” Hunt said. “Let’s break it down. We know that he’s lived here for three years. He’s athletic, well paid, and smart.”

“Athletic?”

“The ME thinks he may have been a rock climber.”

“Smart man, that Trenton Moore.”

“Yeah?”

“Come with me,” Yoakum said, and threaded his way through the kitchen to a narrow door at the back of the house. He opened it and warm air gushed in. “Garage is through the backyard.”

They stepped out onto wet grass. A privacy fence shielded much of the yard, and the garage loomed, square and blunt, at the far corner. Made from the same brick as the house, it was wide enough to hold at least two cars. Yoakum entered first and flicked on the lights. “Check it out.”

Rafters spanned a gulf beneath the peaked roof. Oil stained a dull cement floor. Two of the walls were made from peg boards, and on the pegs hung all kinds of climbing gear: coils of rope, carabineers, pitons, headlamps, and helmets.

“I’d say he was a climber.”

“With some stupid-looking shoes,” Yoakum said, and Hunt turned.

The shoes were ankle high, leather boots with smooth, black rubber soles that curved up the front and sides. Three pairs hung from different pegs. Hunt lifted a pair. “Friction shoes,” he said. “They’re good on stone.”

Yoakum pointed at the rafters. “Guy’s not scared of water, either.”

“Kayaks.” Hunt pointed to the longest of the kayaks. “That’s oceangoing.” He pointed to the short one. “That’s river.”

“There’s no car registered in his name,” Yoakum said.

“But oil stains on the floor.” Hunt lifted a set of keys from a nail by the door: black plastic at the fat end. “Spare set, I’m guessing. Toyota.” He looked at tire marks on the concrete. “Long wheel base. Maybe a truck or a Land Cruiser. Check with the college. Maybe it’s registered to the biology department.”

“We did find a trailer registered to David Wilson.”

“For his dirt bike, probably. The one he was riding when he was killed wasn’t street legal, so he probably took it out on a trailer. What he was doing out in the most forbidding corner of the county is the question. What he was doing and where he was doing it.”

They left the garage and pulled the door shut, started back across the yard. “It’s wild country up there. Lot of woods. Lot of trails.”

“Good place to dirt bike.”

“You think his car is still out there somewhere?” Yoakum asked.

They mounted steps to the back door, went inside and passed through the kitchen. “It has to be.” Hunt pictured the county in his mind. They were a hundred miles from the state capital, sixty from the coast. There was money in town: industry, tourists, golf; but the north country was wild, riddled with swamps and narrow gorges, deep woods and spines of granite. If David Wilson was dirt biking up that way, then his car could be anywhere: back roads, unmapped trails, fields. Anywhere. “We need some designated units up there.” Hunt ran some numbers in his head. “Make it four patrol cars. Get them up there now.”

“It’s pretty dark.”

“Now,” Hunt said. “And get the trailer’s plate number to Highway Patrol.”

Yoakum snapped his fingers and a uniformed officer materialized. “Make sure the state police have Wilson’s plate. Tell them it’s related to the Shore case. They already have the Amber Alert.” The cop disappeared to make the call. Yoakum turned back to Hunt. “Now what?”

Hunt turned a slow circle, studied the shots of David Wilson with his collection of pretty females. “Bedroom. Basement. Attic. Show me everything.”

Levi moved carefully on the mud and slick rocks. The river tossed bits of light that reminded him of something from when he was a boy. There was a rhythm, a pattern, like a kaleidoscope his daddy gave him the year before the cancer took him. The trail bent to high ground and Levi used his free hand to pull on roots and saplings to get him up the slick clay. He dug in the edges of his shoes for traction. When he reached the high, flat stretch, he stopped to catch his breath; and when he started again, the river lights winked out behind the willows and the ash, the sweet gums and the long-fingered pines. It went truly dark, and that’s when he saw the faces. He saw his wife laughing at him and then suddenly not, her face gone reddish black and wet, almost by itself. He saw the man who was with her, and how his face went wrong, too, all red and crooked and flat on one side.

And the sounds.

Levi tried to stop thinking; he wanted to wash the images out of his head, pump water in one ear and flush it, dirty, out the other. He wanted to be empty, wanted to make room for when God spoke. He was happy then, even if it was just one word repeated over and over. Even when it was just a name that rang in his head like a church bell.

Sofia
.

Levi heard it again.

Her name
.

He walked on and felt warm water on his face. It took a mile for him to understand that he was crying. He didn’t care. Nobody could see him out here, not his wife or his neighbors, none of the ones that made jokes when people said things he didn’t understand, or laughed at how he went quiet when he found dead animals on the roadside. So he let the tears come. He listened for God, and let the tears run hot down his ruined face.

He tried to remember the last night he’d slept, but could not. The week behind him was a colored string of blurred images. Digging in the dirt. Walking.

That thing he done…

That thing.

Levi closed his eyes, so tired; and when his foot went out from under him, he fell on the slick clay. He landed on his back and slid down the bank, over stones that tore deep and cut. He struck his head on something hard, saw a burst of light, and felt pain explode in his side. It stabbed through him, horrible and jagged and raw. He felt something break, a violent tug, and realized that his box was gone. His arms flailed, touched plastic once and felt it glide away.

It was in the river.

God almighty, it was gone in the dark.

Levi stared out at black water and pinprick lights. His big hands clenched.

Levi couldn’t swim.

He worried about that for a second, but was in the water even before God told him to jump. He landed, legs spread, arms out, and felt dirty water push into his mouth. He came up spitting, then went down again, his hands loud on the river, water fast and cold between his fingers. He struggled and choked and feared he would die, then found that he could stand in water that rose to his chest. So he stood and beat his way downriver, tore through bits of light until he found his package spinning idly behind a fallen tree.

He fought it to shore, crawled up the bank, and ignored the pain that tried to cripple him. He thought again of his wife.

She shouldn’t have done the things she done
.

He wrapped himself around the package. Pain all in him. Something not right in his body.

She shouldn’t have done it
.

Eventually, Levi slept, still curled around the package, moaning as his giant limbs twitched.

“Nothing.” Hunt stood in the low basement at David Wilson’s house. John Yoakum slouched beside him. Two bulbs hung from rust-stained sockets screwed into bare floor joists; a black furnace sat cold and still in the far corner. Hunt scuffed one foot on the floor and a puff of mold and dust rose and then settled. The room smelled of earth and damp concrete.

“What did you expect?” Yoakum asked.

Hunt looked into the crawl space that ran under the living room at the back of the house. “A lucky break. For once.”

“No such thing as luck, good or bad.”

“Tell that to Tiffany.”

Fifteen hours had now passed since some unknown individual had jerked the girl into his car, and they were no closer to finding her. They’d been over every inch of the house and grounds with nothing to show for it. Hunt beat one palm on the bare wood of the basement stairs, and dust drifted down. “I have to check on my son,” Hunt said. “I forgot to tell him I’d be late.”

“Just call him.”

Hunt shook his head. “He won’t answer.”

“That bad?”

“I don’t want to talk about it.”

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

Hunt gestured up the stairs. “Clean it up. Close it down. I’ll meet you at the station in half an hour.”

“And when we’re there?”

“We work the angles. We pray for some luck.” Hunt put a finger in Yoakum’s face. “And don’t you say it.”

Yoakum raised his hands. “What?”

“Not one damn word.”

Outside, Hunt found a crowd of neighbors gathered on the sidewalk. Two uniformed officers kept them at bay, but he had to push through to get to his car. He was almost there when a thin, angry-looking man asked: “Is this about Tiffany Shore?” He raised his voice. “No one will tell us anything.” Hunt moved past him, and the man pointed at Wilson’s house, spoke even louder. “Is that man involved?”

Hunt almost stopped, then didn’t.

Nothing he could say would make it better.

In the car, he turned the air on high and eased away from the crowd. He needed to go home, check on his son, throw some water on his face, but he found himself skirting the edge of town, then looking down the long, fast drop to Katherine Merrimon’s house. Officer Taylor opened the door before he could knock. Her features were drawn, lips pressed tight. Hunt noticed that her hand rested on the holstered weapon. She relaxed when she saw who it was, then stepped onto the porch and closed the door behind her.

Hunt nodded. “Any sign?”

“Of the kid? No. Of that asshole, Ken Holloway, yes.”

“Problem?”

“He showed up looking for Johnny. He was so pissed, he was red, kept going on about a ruined piano. A Steinman, Steinbeck.”

“Steinway.”

“Yeah, that’s it. The rock that went through the window hit the piano, too.” Taylor smiled. “I think maybe it’s expensive.”

Something tugged at Hunt’s mouth. “Maybe. Did he give you any trouble?”

“Oh, yeah. Starts screaming for the kid’s mother when I refuse to let him inside. I tell him to calm down, he starts telling me that he can get me fired.” Hunt sensed her anger. “I’ll tell you, if that boy had been here, I think he’d have been hurt.”

“How long ago?” Hunt glanced at the street.

“An hour, maybe. He said he’d be back with his lawyer.”

“Are you serious?”

She shrugged. “He wanted in the house and he wanted in bad.”

“If he comes back,” Hunt said, “and if he gives you any excuse, lock him up.”

“Yeah?”

“I’m not going to have him scaring off my witness or messing up my investigation.”

“And that’s the only reason?”

Hunt bit down, looked at the house behind him. He smelled rot from the soffits and low clapboards, saw tears in the screens, cracks in the windowpanes. He remembered the house that Katherine lived in when Alyssa was torn from her, saw her dark eyes and heart-wrenching faith that God would return her child to her. She often prayed by a south-facing window, the light so pure on her perfect skin that she’d looked like an angel herself. And Ken Holloway had been there all along, offering a smile, money, support. That lasted a month. Once she was ground to dust, he’d dropped on her like a vulture. Now, she was strung out. Hunt was pretty sure he knew who was doing the stringing.

“I hate the guy,” Hunt said, and his gaze went distant. “I hate him like I could kill him.”

Taylor glanced away. “No way did I just hear that.”

Hunt felt his shoulders rise, the blood in his face. “Forget it.”

Taylor stared at him. “You sure?”

“Yes.”

“You’re solid?”

“Yeah. Solid.”

“That’s good.” She nodded.

Hunt looked up the road and said, “You have to be kidding me.”

Ken Holloway’s white Escalade slowed on the street, then dropped a tire into the ditch as it turned into the drive. For a second, the car stalled; then the engine gunned and the tire clawed free. A raw gash gleamed black at the edge of the ditch. Clumps of mud and grass hung from the chassis on the right side. Through the window, Hunt could see Holloway’s face: jaw set, flushed. Next to him sat a resigned-looking man that Hunt remembered seeing around the courthouse once or twice, a lawyer of some skill. His face shone pale and damp. He levered the door open, then looked with distaste at everything outside the vehicle: the house, the mud, the cops. His exit from the vehicle was the most dainty that Hunt had ever witnessed.

Hunt stepped down into the yard and Officer Taylor moved down with him. Holloway wore a pink shirt tucked into new jeans, boots that cost more than Hunt’s service weapon. He was big, well over two hundred pounds. In his anger, he looked tall and threatening as he dragged his attorney through the mud. “Tell them.” He aimed a finger, copper bracelet dancing on his wrist. “Tell them how it works.”

The lawyer straightened his jacket. He had polished skin, perfect nails, and a voice to match. “I’m not even sure why I’m here,” the lawyer said. “I’ve already explained to you—”

Holloway cut him off. “You’re my attorney. You’re on retainer. Now, tell them.”

The lawyer looked from Holloway to the cops. He shot his cuffs as if he were in court. “Mr. Holloway is the owner of these premises. He wants access to his property.”