The Last Child Read Free Page B

Spencer Merrimon had left two weeks after his daughter was grabbed. Too much pain. Too much guilt. His wife never let him forget that he was supposed to pick the girl up, never let him forget that she would not have been walking down the road at dusk if he’d only done what he was supposed to do.
    “It wasn’t his fault,” Johnny said.
    “I never said it was.”
    “He was working. He forgot the time. It wasn’t his fault.”
    “We all make mistakes, son. Every last one of us. Your father is a good man. Don’t you ever doubt that.”
    “I don’t.” Sudden resentment in Johnny’s voice.
    “It’s okay.”
    “I never would.” Johnny felt the color fall out of his face. He could not remember the last time he’d spoken so much to a grown-up, but there was something about the cop. He was old as hell, like forty, but he never rushed things, and there was a warmth to his face, a kindness that didn’t seem fake or put on to trick a kid into trusting him. His eyes were always very still, and some part of Johnny hoped that he was a good enough cop to make things right. But it had been a year, and his sister was still gone. Johnny had to worry about the now, and in the now this cop was no friend.
    There was Social Services, which was just waiting for an excuse; and then there were the things that Johnny did, the places he went when he cut school, the risks he took when he snuck out after midnight. If the cop knew what Johnny was doing, he would be forced to take action. Foster homes. The courts.
    He would stop Johnny if he could.
    “How’s your mom?” the cop asked. His eyes were intent, hand still on the cart.
    “Tired,” Johnny said. “Lupus, you know. She tires easily.”
    The cop frowned for the first time. “Last time I found you here, you told me she had Lyme disease.”
    He was right. “No. I said she had lupus.”
    The cop’s face softened and he lifted his hand from the cart. “There are people who want to help. People who understand.”
    Suddenly, Johnny was angry. No one understood, and no one offered to help. Not ever. “She’s just under the weather. Just run down.”
    The cop looked away from the lie, but his face remained sad. Johnny watched his gaze fall to the aspirin bottle, the tomato juice. From the way his eyes lingered, it was obvious that he knew more than most about drunks and drug abusers. “You’re not the only one who’s hurting, Johnny. You’re not alone.”
    “Alone enough.”
    The cop sighed deeply. He took a card from his shirt pocket and wrote a number on the back of it. He handed it to the boy. “If you ever need anything.” He looked determined. “Day or night. I mean it.”
    Johnny glanced at the card, slipped it into the pocket of his jeans. “We’re fine,” he said, and pushed the cart around him. The cop dropped a hand on the boy’s shoulder.
    “If he ever hits you again…”
    Johnny tensed.
    “Or your mother…”
    Johnny shrugged the hand off. “We’re fine,” he repeated. “I’ve got it covered.”
    He pushed past the cop, terrified that he would stop him, that he would ask more questions or call one of the hard-faced women from Social Services.
    The cart scraped against the counter at the register, and a large woman on a worn stool dipped her nose. She was new to the store, and Johnny saw the question in her face. He was thirteen but looked years younger. He pulled the hundred from his pocket and put it faceup on the conveyor belt. “Can you hurry, please?”
    She popped gum and frowned. “Easy, sugar. Here we go.”
    The cop lingered ten feet behind, and Johnny felt him there, eyes on his back as the fat lady rang up the groceries. Johnny forced himself to breathe, and after a minute, the cop walked past. “Keep that card,” he said.
    “Okay.” Johnny could not bear to meet his eyes.
    The cop turned, and his smile was not an easy one. “It’s always good to see you, Johnny.”
    He left the store, visible through the broad plate glass. He