The Last Child by John Hart Page A

Hunt saw damp spots at the hairline where he’d tried to make himself crisp. His hands were empty. “What does Tiffany Shore’s disappearance have to do with Johnny?”
    “Can you step away from the door, please?” Hunt kept his voice professional, which was hard. He’d as soon shoot Ken Holloway as look at him.
    “Very well.” Holloway pushed the door wide and turned, his hands slapping the sides of his legs.
    Hunt stepped inside, eyes cutting left and right until he spotted the weapon, a .38 caliber revolver. Stainless. It sat on top of the television, barrel angled to the wall.
    “It’s registered,” Holloway said.
    “I’m sure it is. I need to speak with Johnny.”
    “This is about what happened today?”
    Hunt smelled alcohol. “Do you really care?”
    Holloway smiled without humor. “Just a minute.” He raised his voice. “Johnny.” No answer. He called again, then cursed under his breath. The hall swallowed him up and Hunt heard a door open, then slam closed. When he returned, he came alone. “He’s not here.”
    “Where is he?”
    “I have no idea.”
    Anger rose in Hunt’s voice. “He’s thirteen years old. It’s dark out and raining. The car is gone and you have no idea where he is? As far as I’m concerned, that constitutes neglect.”
    “And as I understand the law, Detective, that’s his mother’s problem. I’m a guest in this house.”
    Their eyes locked, and Hunt stepped closer. Holloway was a two-faced user, slick and accommodating, but only when it served his needs. There may be buildings named after him at the college, but Hunt could not hide his dislike. “You need to be careful with me.”
    “Is that a threat?”
    Hunt said nothing.
    “You have no idea who I am,” Holloway said.
    “If harm comes to that boy…”
    Holloway smiled coldly. “What’s your name again? I have a meeting tomorrow with the mayor
and
the city manager. I’d like to get it right.”
    Hunt spelled it for him, then said, “About the boy.”
    “He’s a delinquent. What do you want me to do about it? He’s neither my son nor my responsibility. Now, do you want me to get his mother? I may be able to wake her. She won’t know where he is, but I’ll haul her out here if it will make you happy.”
    Hunt had admired Johnny’s mother since they’d first met. Small but full of life, she’d shown courage and faith under unbearable circumstances. She’d stayed strong until the day she fell apart, at which point the collapse was total. Maybe it was grief, maybe it was guilt, but she was tragic and lost, adrift in the kind of horror that few parents could imagine. The thought of her with a user like Ken Holloway was bad enough. Seeing her dragged out of bed by him would be even worse, a degradation.
    “I’ll find him myself.” Hunt moved for the door.
    “We’re not finished, Detective.”
    “No,” Hunt said, “we’re not.”
    His hand was on the door when Holloway’s cell phone rang. He lingered as Holloway answered: “Yes.” Holloway turned his back to Hunt. “Are you certain? Very well. Yes, call the police. I’ll be there in ten minutes.” He closed the phone and faced Hunt. “My alarm company,” he said. “If you still want to find Johnny, you can start by looking at my house.”
    “Why do you say that?”
    “Because the little shit just threw a rock through my front window.”
    “What makes you think it’s Johnny?”
    Holloway picked up his keys. “It’s always Johnny.”
    “Always?”
    “This is the fifth fucking time.”
     
     
    Johnny drove down dark streets, and rain put mercury streaks on the glass. Tiffany Shore’s parents were rich, and lived just three blocks from Ken Holloway. Johnny had been to a party there once. He slowed as he approached Tiffany’s house, then stopped on the street. He saw cop cars and shadows that moved behind draped windows. He watched the house for a long time, then looked at the neighbors on both sides. Warm light spilled out of