The Last Child by John Hart

night at three in the morning; Hunt, showing up at sunrise on a Sunday to pore over evidence he’d already seen a hundred times; harassing judges to sign warrants that never panned out; working overtime, then off the clock; leveraging other cops, resources that should be spent on other cases. He watched Hunt work himself ragged. He saw the pale skin and the weight loss, the sleepless eyes and the stacks of files on the floor of Hunt’s office. And there were other issues.
    Rumors.
    “It’s not a question, Hunt. It’s a demand, an imperative.”
    Hunt clamped his teeth, barely able to speak around the emotion he was choking down. He ran major crimes. Lead detective. That was his job, his life. “I said, I’m on it.”
    Hunt heard breath on the line, then a voice, muffled in the background. When the Chief spoke, his words came with precision. “I have no room for personal, Hunt. Not on this case.”
    Hunt stared straight ahead. “Got it. No personal.”
    “This is about Tiffany Shore.
Her
family. Not Alyssa Merrimon. Not her brother. And not her mother. Are we clear?”
    “Crystal.”
    A long pause, then a voice that hinted at regret. “Personal gets you fired, Clyde. It gets you drummed right the hell out of my department. Don’t make me do that.”
    “I don’t need a lecture.” He left the rest unsaid:
Not from some fat, politician cop
.
    “You’ve already lost your wife. Don’t lose your job, too.”
    Hunt looked in the mirror and saw the rage in his own eyes. He pulled air deep into his lungs. “Just stay out of my way,” he said, and sounded like a reasonable man might sound. “Show a little faith.”
    “You’ve been burning the faith candle for a year, and it’s burned pretty damn low. When the papers go to bed tomorrow night, I want to see a picture of Tiffany Shore sitting on her mother’s lap. Front page. That’s how we keep our jobs.” A pause, Hunt unwilling to trust his voice and therefore silent. “Give me a happy ending, Clyde. Give me that, and I’ll pretend you’re the same cop you were a year ago.”
    The Chief hung up.
    Hunt punched the roof of his car, then turned into Johnny’s driveway. He noticed at once that the station wagon was gone. When he knocked on the front door, it rattled enough to make the house sound hollow. Hunt looked through the small window and saw Ken Holloway emerging from the dark hall. He wore shined shoes under slightly wrinkled pants, and worked to get his shirt tucked in. He cinched up an alligator belt, then paused at a mirror to smooth his hair and check his teeth. A revolver hung in his right hand.
    “Police, Mr. Holloway. Put down the gun and open the door.”
    Holloway twitched, suddenly aware that he could be seen through the window. A deprecating smile rose on his face. “Police who?”
    “Detective Clyde Hunt. I need to speak to Johnny.”
    The smile disappeared. “May I see a badge?”
    Hunt pressed his shield to the glass, then stepped away from the door and lowered one hand to the butt of his service weapon. Holloway donated money to good causes. He served on boards and played golf with powerful people.
    But Hunt knew the man.
    It had taken a year of watching Katherine and Johnny: odd encounters, like the one at the grocery store; things said and not said; a limp or a bruise; the boy’s naked eyes when he thought he was being tough. Hunt had pushed, but Katherine was gone most of the time, out of it, and Johnny was scared. Hunt had nothing solid.
    But he knew.
    Another step back cleared three feet between Hunt and the door. The dark bulk of Holloway’s chest was visible through the slash of window. He looked meaty and tan, with a broad chest above a thick stomach. His face appeared behind the glass. “It’s the middle of the night, Detective.”
    “It’s barely nine, Mr. Holloway. A child has been abducted. Please open the door.”
    The lock disengaged and the door swung open a foot. Creases cut the flesh of Holloway’s face, but