The Last Child by John Hart Page B

those houses, and in the dark of the street, Johnny felt very alone, because nobody else knew. No one could understand what was happening behind the walls of Tiffany’s house, what her family was suffering: the fear and anger, the slow drain of hope and the end of all things.
    No one knew what Johnny knew.
    Except her parents
, he thought.
    Her parents knew
.
     
     
    Hunt sat in his car and watched Holloway come out of the house. He gave a cold stare that Hunt was happy to return, then settled into his car. The big engine caught and the Escalade rocked onto the road. Hunt listened to the rain on his car and looked at the light spilling from Johnny’s house. Katherine was asleep in there, and he pictured her buried under the covers, back curved against the night.
    He powered up his laptop and keyed in Johnny Merrimon’s name. Ken had filed complaints, but there was no record of any arrest. No warrants. Whatever Holloway believed about Johnny’s involvement in the ongoing vandalism of his house, he had no proof of it.
    Hunt thought about why Johnny would throw rocks through Holloway’s windows. Only one thing made sense. Johnny wanted the man out of his house, away from his mother, and he’d figured out the one thing that would do it every time. No way would a man like Holloway leave his house unguarded. Not overnight.
    Five times and never caught. Hunt shook his head and tried not to smile.
    He really did like that kid.
     
     
    For another two minutes, Hunt sat in the car and pored through the Tiffany Shore file. It was thin. He knew what she was wearing when last seen. He had a list of identifying marks. A dime-sized birthmark marred the back of her right shoulder blade; a fishhook scar still showed pink on her left calf. She was twelve years old, blond, with no major dental work, no surgical scars. Hunt had her height, weight, date of birth. She owned a cell phone but records showed no outgoing calls since yesterday. Not much to go on. What they did have was a couple of kids who heard her scream but couldn’t agree on the color of the car she was pulled into. Hunt had also questioned her closest friends. As far as they knew, Tiffany had no secret boyfriend, no problems at home. She made good grades, liked horses, and had kissed a boy maybe once. A typical girl.
    Hunt jotted a note in the file:
Were Tiffany and Alyssa friends?
Maybe they both knew the wrong guy.
    Hunt thought of the things he did not have. He had no description of the perp, no calls of suspicious activity, and no ID on the car. Basically, nothing. What he did have was Johnny Merrimon and the things that David Wilson had told him before he died. He claimed to have found the girl that had been taken. Found her where? Found her how? Dead or alive? Whoever ran David Wilson off the road did so on purpose. But was it Johnny Merrimon’s giant, as Cross suspected? Or was it someone else?
    Hunt needed to find the kid.
    He called the station, got one of his detectives. “It’s Hunt. What have you got?”
    “Nothing good. Myers and Holiday are still with Tiffany’s parents.”
    “Are they holding up?” Hunt interrupted.
    “Their doctor is there. The mother, you know. They’re sedating her.”
    “Anything on Tiffany’s cell?”
    “Nothing. No hits on GPS, either.”
    “Is Yoakum still backtracking David Wilson?”
    “He’s at the house now.”
    “Do we know anything yet?”
    “Just that Wilson was a professor at the college. Biology of some sort.”
    “What about prints?” Hunt asked.
    “We got a thumb print from the victim’s eyelid. We’re running it now. Should know something soon.”
    “Volunteers?”
    “Over a hundred so far. We’re trying to get that organized for an early start. Should be working the countryside by six.” A silence fell between the men, both thinking the same thing:
It’s a damn big county
.
    “We need more people,” Hunt said. “Get the churches involved, the civic clubs. We had a hundred college kids when