Mihael knows it's over when the dog dies.
The neighbour's shovel is giving him splinters. He grips hard anyway and digs deeper.
Grass is lazy in April. Months of winter have softened the fields, browning the grass better than Matt's piss ever had. Mihael won't be outside for long.
Matt was a good dog. He couldn't sit or stay, but he'd follow wherever Mihael went. Most of his favourite memories are scored by Matt's panting in the background.
Trouble is, Matt never knew when to stop.
Mihael reckoned his dad would have been kinder if Matt had kept quiet. The last girl was a squirmer, thrashing in the milkweeds so much she'd coloured her arms with red scratches and pinkish pollen. His dad had hummed when she gave in, told Mihael the strong ones always taste better. Sweetheart's tenderized herself, he had said.
Mihael felt sicker at the joke than the act at the time. Now, he thinks of how he bit back from saying a Hail Mary after they'd closed her eyes and that pushes him over.
His knees buckle and he retches beside his dog's grave. He keeps his head bowed for several minutes afterwards, hands rubbed raw on the shovel's handle. Mihael doesn't get up until he's said the rosary twice.
When he's done, he fishes a Kit Kat from his pocket. He keeps several drugstore bars on hand at all times just for this. Last time, he went through four Baby Ruths before the taste of cheap chocolate finally overwhelmed the sourness in his mouth.
They will honour her, of course. Her hair for their quilts, her bones jellified for pipes, her meat for their table.
Mihael is glad his dad did not want to honour Matt. After the girl quit struggling, Matt stirred from his nap in the backseat. Catching sight of Mihael outside, he'd honed in on the boy like always, yipping madly all the way. He'd only gotten a yard away from the car before his dad had shot Matt down and he'd died mid-bark, body sagging over a fallen oak.
We don't take mutts to hunt, love, he'd said over Mihael's quiet sobbing, as they heaved the girl into the trunk. He'd thrown Mihael the shovel and a bus token before driving off for work, leaving him to bury his kill.
He wonders how his dad hadn't noticed Matt earlier. When they had been going down the main road and Mihael had rolled down the window, the cool southern air had excited Matt. He'd done what all dogs do and stuck his head out, tail hitting Mihael's shoulder with each wag. Matt had yelped when they hit the speed bump near Winsmore Avenue. Mihael petted him the whole trip through afterwards, fingers finding knots in Matt's thick tiger-striped coat and pulling them loose.
Mihael figures his dad had known, but he can't say for sure. There's a lot about his dad that he guesses. Every night is an uncertainty. Five hours ago, his biggest worry was advanced algerbra.
What he does know roots itself in half-truths and crockpot dinners and his father's calloused hands; on his hands, guiding knives to arteries; on his shoulders, steadying him as he carved as kindly as he could into fresh hides; running through his too long hair, untangling blonde knots with a comb whittled from bone.
And he does know it is over. That much is true. Mihael can't bear another night out here, where shotguns are pointed at girls and fired at dogs.
It takes thirty minutes to walk to the main road. He could catch a blue light bus and be home by dawn if he hurries.
L is used to travel. Neon smears and red-eye flights are dotted across his adult life, mapping out each closed case like an over-enthusastic child's colouring book, leaving few spaces where he hasn't made his mark.
But he's rarely near when they need him. He's taken to consulting several cases at once via Skype calls, from the uncomfort of a remote English manor shrouded in thick greedy ivy, unless the stakes call for a personal touch.
So it's a surprise when the FBI requests he deals with a Virginia killer while he is in Georgia, finishing up the Atlanta Child Murders. He could arrange to fly by morning, even within the hour if he really wanted to, but this hotel serves Belgian waffles for breakfast. He'll call Watari for a ride around noon, when the tourist rush hits that peak of unwashed stench and toddler babble.
The gooseneck lamp beside his bed hangs too low, leaving most of the room swathed in the early evening dark. Soichiro is late, so it's likely another girl has been found.
When Soichiro calls, L knows he hasn't slept. The man has foregone the usual niceness of mindless conversation that eased these talks.
"How much do you know?"
"Just what's on the news. Watari has not briefed me yet. Twelve girls?"
There is a tense moment before Soichiro answers.
"Yes. Twelve, as of an hour ago. I'm sure you've noticed the pattern."
"All blonde, blue-eyed, 17 to 18 years, thin, white. All strangled, then found with injuries suggesting staking. Time frame's about three months. Sakura TV's calling this one the Reverse Hitler."
Soichiro gave a mirthless laugh. "Those bastards. Local law's calling him the Shrike."
L closes his eyes and sees dead mice impaled on bare branches.
Soichiro suddenly remembers pleasantries. "I hope Atlanta is agreeing with you."
It isn't. The weather here is too good for L. He is used to a life of trying to get warmer, where coldsnapped days were spent under electric blankets and hovering around the kettle. America is a heavy hotness, even in spring. At least the rain is familiar here. There are sudden downpours most days, beloved by the worms who never go back home.
"It's bearable," L says. Everything is bearable, really.
"Good. You'll be meeting forensics tomorrow. You will come, right?"
"Yes." The numbers are high enough, and he hasn't managed to flesh out a solid profile from blown-out photos of mutilated corpses and field reports alone. This one requires more thought.
L stays in Wolf Trap. Grey skies threaten bad weather by day and fitzing porch lights threaten lightning for moths by night. The house is surrounded by infertile farmlands and dirt roads. It's a beacon of white peeling paint and rotting wood in a sea of neglected apple orchards. Tire marks full of rainwater encircle the residence like a poor man's moat, deep enough for brave deer to rely on to quench their thirst and braver raccoons to wash their food. Inside, twin heady musks of forgotten laundry and spilled instant coffee seeps into the outdated furniture. Green ants crawl on the hoods of scuffed windows, marching around half-empty cartons of almond milk. All in all, L thinks it's the perfect place to remain vigilant and watchful for storms.
The house was purchased hours after Soichiro called. Watari bought it from a friend and former motorcross champion, now grizzled and destined for a retirement home.
Overall, L finds the house in an acceptable state. There are no insidious associations he can make with the man's belongings, and what perversions he does detect (a Martin van Maële painting and a pile of Quentin Tarantino films suggest a suppressed foot fetish) aren't perversions of justice.
He debates between illness or dwindling funds as the ex-homeowner's primary motivation for selling his home and most of his possessions on such short notice, before he stumbles across cortisol medication in the bathroom. He decides on illness, tipping orange pill vials into the trash.
Adrenal fatigue was fairly obvious, given the homeowner's lifestyle. An extensive trophy collection, ranging in years but always cast in gold, was scattered across the living room, and coffee mug rings were stained all over the ottoman. Only four personal photos were framed above the fireplace. The photos were all candid shots of the homeowner, young and sunbrowned, with his arms around a woman of similar build and age.
The high intensity of racing had dwarfed family; by the occupants of the photos, L thinks a romantic relationship early in his career, possibly with a fellow competitor, was the only human connection the homeowner had valued. Because the photos remained, it's probable the two hadn't split, but that the woman had died.
There's no time for further observations. He had only spent fifteen minutes in the house before he hears Soichiro calling him back.
They won't be meeting forensics today, at least not in the lab. There's been a thirteenth.
They couldn't call the Shrike's victims murders until the eighth girl. Before, the case was a string of missing teens, spirited away on Friday nights. In March, the Shrike had left Michelle Cluizel in her bed, swaddled like a newborn. They found puncture wounds in her torso, stuffed with antler velvet, and stitches across her chest. From that, the name Shrike stuck. The birds were in-season anyway, their prey found atop chain fences, falling from trees and the heads of deer. The parallels struck L as a sign the Shrike could be a long-time local, familiar with the wildlife.
Last night, Katrina Markoff was found in her dorm room at George Mason University, lying in bed much like Michelle with the same wounds and stuffings. Her roommate had at first reported her as the victim of alcohol poisoning, but first responders realized Katrina's corpse was impaled after peeling layers of sheets away. She also had stitches, but in her side.
"He loves them," L tells Soichiro as they drive. "Not physically of course, since we didn't find bodily fluids or signs of intercourse. He wouldn't hurt them that way. However, there's nothing special about these girls. This is all for one girl. By extension, I assume he feels a form of affection towards the rest. But, Michelle and Katrina weren't supposed to be taken. He put them back where he found them, risking capture to do so. Michelle and Katrina were apologies."
"For what?"
"I haven't figured that out yet," L admits. "They are outliers somehow, unable to fit the ideal he's searching for. I'm curious about the stitches, considering nothing internally was taken or inserted. Chances are he removed organs, but then returned them for some reason. Could you have them tested for abnormal tumour growths or organ diseases? Oh, and have the higher-ups cleared this yet?"
"Yes and yes, as long as you do a psych eval when we get back."
"That won't be necessary."
Soichiro is shaking his head as soon as the words leave L's mouth.
"It is now. Hoope revised field regulations for special investigators last week."
"Oh, hell," L says. David Hoope hates him.
"There's nothing to worry about. I've arranged for my son to do the eval."
"That's fortunate. I'm glad nepotism is alive and well. Have you ran a background check?"
Soichiro doesn't say anything for a minute.
"He's my son," he finally says slowly. "I raised him."
"I conduct background checks on everyone who is close to me," L says.
"I raised him," Soichiro repeats, so L drops the matter.
They park a block away, since the street in front of the Komatsu home is crowded enough with police cruisers.
"The mother found her in bed. Wounds were in the same positions as the other two. Early signs point to strangulation as cause of death, but this time he slashed her throat afterward."
"Tell me about the Komatsus."
"Family of two, mother's divorced. Sanami wasn't white, but other than that she fits the profile. She went missing on Friday, just like the other girls."
Ms. Komatsu sees them at the door.
"Find him," she says, and that's all she can manage.
She shows them in. Soichiro sits down with her in the living room. L leaves them there wordlessly and heads upstairs. He's glad Soichiro ordered privacy for his assessment. Her grief would have been overwhelming.
Pure empathy is what they've called his deductions, the ability to completely take on anyone's perspective, but L doubts his thoughts stem from any kind place.
Sanami's room is empty, for now. The detectives hovering by her door nod to him. He needn't flash his glossy blue-and-white identification card ("HIDEKI RYUGA, CRIMINAL PROFILER"), but he does anyway. He's worked with most of them at least twice. Something about America is a siren call for the monstrous, and he finds his most sinister foes always end up here.
Sanami is pale. In the dark, it's hard to notice her Asian features. She lies in bed, like Michelle, but her legs hang over her bed, toes grazing floor.
Where has all your love gone, he thinks. There's no respect in this. Blood has congealed over her shredded jugular. Black hair crusted with older blood peeks out from under a wig of synthetic blonde hair. There are bruises on her neck and no other signs of trauma, apart from the telltale piercings.
The discolouration on her eyes bothers him. It's not until he leans in close that he realizes Sanami was wearing blue contacts – two faint rings encircled her irises, too bright of a colour to be natural. By the diameter, L thinks these are circle lenses, contacts popular in Asia for giving the appearance of wider eyes.
L closes his own, feeling an old thrumming behind them. The bells of his mind start ringing, once again.
No, no, this isn't right. There's no tenderness. This isn't how the Shrike would love. She's an outlier, like the other girl, she's as wrong as Michelle and Katrina but he's not cruel to his mistakes, those blonde-haired blue-eyed girls are so dear to him, he has to show them so badly, has to but he can't, what's holding him back?
The girls, he needs them so, won't let them go unless they're not right. And even when they are wrong, like the two were somehow, like Sanami who had tried to hide her otherness, he's kind, he tucks them in and stuffs them with antler velvet. Why stitches and antler velvet? To mend what's been done, and velvet's used to heal tendons and cartilages and god, he just wants to take it all back, you poor dears, I'm sorry, please, I just don't want her to leave, I –
L's eyes flutter open. He checks for velvet or stitches, and finds neither.
"They say you put the special in special agent," a voice behind him says.
It's Halle. There's no weight to the insult, L knows. Halle has weathered forensics longer than her male peers, and has probably heard the jab from a well-meaning source. L will talk to Matsuda later.
They are standing over Sanami Komatsu and suddenly L feels very guilty.
"You're not supposed to be here," L says.
She ignores him. "Nate said they're making you take a psych eval. You're unstable?"
He ignores her. "Where's Soichiro?"
She jabs a thumb at the doorway. He's watching from there, clearly glaring at Halle. He'll rebuke her in private, but for now, he knows not to broach L's space. Another body would incense him.
"This isn't the Shrike," he tells Soichiro.
Soichiro's face falls. "A copycat."
"Yes. They want us to think Sanami was accidentally taken by the Shrike. They've deliberately set this display to contradict the others. This, this is a mockery. It's wrong in all the right ways, like a game of spot the difference. The copycat didn't love her. He thought this girl was foul." L laughs humourlessly. "He thought she was a pig. I can't say much else. Couldn't put myself in his head."
He can tell Soichiro doesn't believe his last statement, but it's true. L is reluctant to put himself in a killer's mind while he's already inhabiting another.
Soichiro steps in, now that L's assessment is over and Halle has preoccupied herself with her own.
"Think hard. Is there anything you can tell me about this copycat?" Soichiro asks, prodding what he knows isn't there.
L frowns. "Are you implying I'm not thinking hard all the time? Because I am. And no, this is too smart. He's sadistic, that's obvious, and intelligently predicted just how to distort this display for me, enough so that I'd be able to differentiate what the Shrike is looking for. He may never kill like this again." He snorts. "If anything, he's helped me get a clearer picture of our man."
Soichiro inhales deeply and strokes a hand through his hair. "All right. Let me know if anything else comes to you. Find anything, Lidner?"
"She's missing her heart," Halle says.
When L walks into Soichiro's office, there's already a man sitting there, pouring coffee from a thermos into a china cup.
And then there's this asshole, L thinks. He slumps his walk. Lets his face slacken.
"Hello," the man says.
"I am perfectly sane," L says.
L is the biggest liar he's ever met and it makes Light hungry.
The psych eval runs for hours.
"Oh, I definitely have problems with authority," L murmurs, tipping a fourteenth sugar cube into the thermos. Around the third, Light had stopped drinking. "It's why I work with the FBI, you know. Can't stand the man."
"The man?"
"The man," L confirms. "Gotta take him down from the inside, brother."
Light hums. He's writing slow, taking his time to glance at L as he jots his notes. He looks pleased by what he sees.
"Are you uncomfortable in social situations?"
"Terribly. I have severe anxiety. Started taking medication for high cortisol levels since last month. Can't stand talking to anyone," L says. "Can barely stand talking to you," he adds.
Light snorts. "Yes, I can see that," he says. His eyes flit above, as if Light was trying not to roll his eyes.
"Don't believe me, Yagami?"
Light continues to stare above. "I think I'm the most intelligent person you've talked to all week and you want to drag this on as long as possible."
L pulls his feet up and hugs his legs. He shucked off shoes and socks twenty minutes ago, when he started waxing poetic on his phobia of footwear.
"What gave you that impression?" he asks.
"Your mannerisms are all obviously exaggerated. You're trying to misinform me with eccentric behavioural patterns and answers," Light says. He lowers his gaze, staying at L through half-lidded eyes. "It's cute."
"Ha. Yes, cute. How demeaning. Your word choice suggests you want me to believe my actions to be as thoughtful as a child's. Am I supposed to infer a jab at my masculinity too? That's laughable. At any rate, what makes you so sure I think you're intelligent?"
"You're barely paying attention to the image you project to others, but with me you've dressed to the nines in this idiot persona. And you know I'm aware that it's just a screen, that I'm smart enough to discern your real nature underneath. But you're bored, so this act is just as much for me as it is for you. I know how you act around my father. He's a man you almost respect, so there's none of this pretense."
"Your narcissism is astounding. Figures. That's a brand name suit, isn't it? Everyone else here wears department store, but you don't think you're anyone else, not really. God. You're not taking into account how your occupation is playing a role in our interactions at all, are you? That it might benefit me to give a skewed evaluation to Hoope?"
"You don't give a shit about Hoope. You don't really care about anyone, really. I could write you off as fit for death row and you'd take it all in stride. And yes, I hold my appearance in high regard. Thank you for noticing. It's a Fioravanti. I only buy bespoke these days, you know. Do you think people are untrustworthy and are out to get you?"
L almost sneers. "Way to keep it professional, Yagami. And no, I don't. People are mostly harmless. I'm not paranoid."
Light brings a hand to his mouth, either to rub at the side of his lips or hold in a laugh. He does both, a muffled happy noise kept lodged in his throat. When he's done, he puts down his notepad by the table and leans in close to L. His hand brushes against L's identification card, which he'd clipped to a belt loop in his jeans. L never realized how close they were sitting.
"Thank you for participating in your evaluation, L," Light says in his ear. "Would you like to have dinner?"
"No," L says. He gets up and leaves.
When he's home, he rips his identification card into shreds and throws it in the trash. He calls Watari for a new one an hour later. He tells him his former was compromised.
The next morning there's a knock on his door.
L opens it and sees Light.
He closes his door.
"Should I run a background check on you?" he asks through a crack in the door.
"I brought french toast." is the reply.
L lets him in.
The banana-stuffed french toast is accompanied by tupperwared fruit salads and maple-glazed turkey bacon. L drizzles honey over it all. He almost wants to bring out the aerosol whipped cream he keeps in the fridge, but he'd rather not share more with Light than he already has.
"I'd like to be friends."
"I don't find you that interesting."
He tries the bacon, chewing it carefully. The glaze of maple syrup has caramelized the meat, smoky sweetness melting on his tongue.
Light watches him eat, smile growing wider as if he's enjoying an inside joke.
"You will."
L doesn't like squads, not even when he was on the force. He prefers junkers, humpy cars two decades out of fashion and smelling like bad air conditioner. He does not miss the slight tug Light's mouth makes when they sit in L's 1992 Dodge Intrepid and the plastic seat covers squeak underneath them.
"You hacked your father's computer records," L states.
"Yes."
"That's illegal."
"Hmm."
Soichiro had called earlier, telling L forensics found a flake of metal on Katie, matching metals used in commercial pipe threaders. Overnight, they'd narrowed potential origins for the flake to several construction companies. L thinks Nate did most of the legwork for this case – it would have been a worthy challenge eliminating sources using just one flake's variables, and he can't think of anyone who'd produce as impressive results while working the notorious Monday night shift.
"How many other aliases do you have, Ryuuga?" Light says, the pseudonym dragging across his lips.
He had agreed to show Light how he investigates in exchange for the man staying mum on his "true" identity. He now wonders why. Negotiating with terrorists never works. He would know.
"I don't know, Yagami. How many girlfriends are you seeing right now?"
"Please, call me Light. And four, as of two days ago. My fifth found out about the others and ended it. Girls can be so heartless."
"Poor baby. I'll cry you a river when I get home. Typical that you'd need a small harem to satisfy your narcissism. I assume they aren't keeping you satisfied, by your invitation last night."
"I'm insatiable," Light says, with a smile that doesn't quite reach his eyes. "I imagine the great detective L feels the same way."
"My imagination is wholly populated by serial killers," L says. "I can assure you I am preoccupied with nothing else, especially whatever you project me to feel."
"All right. How about just me then?"
"No vacancy."
They arrive at Vulcan's Cutting & Threading early.
Mihael had forgotten the shovel in the forest. The neighbour visits and tells his dad off something fierce. Mr. Klein spits when he yells. Mihael is glad that, for all of his dad's faults, at his most angry his voice still remains as soft and even as ever.
Are his dad's words tempered by love for his son? Or does he just sublimate all frustrations through hunting? Unknowns. Knowledge is power and Mihael hates how weak he is.
The phone rings. He frowns. Caller ID says private number, a rarity when the only ones who call around these days are his dad's work contacts and full scholarship offers from universities.
He picks up and listens.
"Halle. Results?" he texts.
The answer comes within minutes. "Michelle had lung cancer. We screened Katrina's liver and found alcoholic hepatitis."
L closes his eyes. Okay. So their insides were no good. The meat was bad. But why would that be important?
Unless.
"He's eating the girls," he says.
Light looks up from the stack of paperwork they were speed-reading. "Pardon? Where's this coming from?"
L's eyes are still closed. He can't hear the ringing over Light.
"Shut up. He's killing girls to show his love, then devouring them so they won't go to waste. He can't eat bad meat though, and he regrets killing them if he can't honour them."
L opens his eyes. For an instant, he sees a strange expression on Light's face before it disappears.
"That's a nice theory," he says. "But how can you be sure he's cannibalizing them? He could be running an organ donor service on the black market."
"No, god no. This is a love for one girl he can't have, slaughterous adoration for the ideal. He wouldn't share her with anyone else. I wouldn't. Would you?"
"No," Light agrees.
"Excuse me sirs," the clerk says. "Could I get your names again?" She's still holding her cell phone, despite just finishing a call, as if it to ring the police should they give the wrong answer.
Light shows his identification card and points at L's, while L thumbs through Vulcan's employee records. He makes small talk as L's eyes dart from page to page, searching for oddness. L supposes he's a bit thankful to Light. Casual talk with civilians is difficult after listening to the bells.
After 60-odd pages, L finds something. Or rather, the lack of something, which is even better.
"Where is this man's address? He's only left a phone number." He shows the clerk Rod Ross' file.
"Roddie? He's one of our temp plumbers. If you wanna talk to him, he won't be in until 6 tomorrow, I reckon. You never know with that one, his attendance's pretty spotty."
"I noticed."
"I'm sure we have his home address on file somewhere, I can check. "
"Does Ross have a teenager daughter or a niece? She'd be blonde, blue-eyed, possibly slender-"
"Oh! You must be talking about Mihael. I thought he was a girl at first too," the clerk says.
"It's that haircut of his, just the prettiest darn thing. And such a good boy too. He's always bringing his pa's lunch over and..."
A son with long blonde hair. L freezes. The girl he can never have. There it is.
There's no time to drop Light off and a high chance Mihael has been the intended victim all along. The murders will either culminate with his death, his father's or both.
As Light calls for backup inside, L paces around his car, revising the Weaver stance and running through as many possible outcomes as he can. At moments like this, preparation is crucial for increasing the probability of success, and in this case, survival.
When Light's finished, he emerges from Vulcan's with a grim look on his face. L's ready for the worst, so he sets a grimmer look on his.
"I calculated the distance. We'd get there in fifteen minutes, a solid seven minutes before police," he says.
"Okay," he says. "We're getting there in ten."
It worries L how high-performance driver training is practically non-existent in American police academies, and not mandatory for all special investigation employees. He believes that everyone working for any intelligence agency, field agents and otherwise, should know pursuit procedures. It's essential to utilize resources as effectively as possible. As much as he hates to admit it, justice is a team sport and you're only as good as your weakest player. For his next case, he thinks he'll demand the FBI completely overhaul its driving education system before he agrees to solve anything. But for now, he copes.
"Go faster," L says, poking Light in the ribs.
"We're making good time," Light says, peering down at his watch. It's cheaply made, something as unnatural on Light as a good night's sleep to L. It's a gift from someone who sees Light often, whose approval he wants to appear to hold in high esteem. L makes a note to thank Soichiro for his horrible taste in wristwear sometime.
"Yes, if I had arthritis and you were a double leg amputee. Drive better, Light."
They arrive at 41 Gordon Drive a minute later than L wanted.
It is quiet, save for the chirps of cicadas, woken too early by the day's unusual summerness. The sun glazes the brick house and lush lawns in amber tones, but overexposes everything else. The white of L's shirt is blinding. His holster itches against his side. It's hot and it's suffocating and it's the middle of April. L is reminded of Atlanta and almost smells vaporized lead.
Then there is a scream and a gunshot. It starts. They run to the front door.
L drives his heel near the keyhole, kicking the door's weakest spot. As soon as it falls, he's ran over it.
He raises his handgun, sweeping and clearing each room rapidly, before he reaches Rod.
They are in the kitchen.
A fine mist of blood coats the refrigerator.
Rod turns, and pulls Mihael to face L.
There is a single-action revolver on the floor, its wooden grip splintered under the weight of Rod's foot.
Rod holds a knife to Mihael's neck.
His right shoulder is dripping blood onto Mihael's exposed collarbone.
Mihael is hyperventilating. Rod is taking shallow breathes. L can't hear either of them.
Rod doesn't break away from staring at L. Rod sees L and L sees Rod, and it lasts forever.
Forever ends when Rod's knuckles turn white and he gives in, driving the serrated blade into Mihael's throat.
L fires five times. Four to the chest, one to the left shoulder.
Everyone falls. L rushes to catch Mihael, elevating his neck while his hands try to stem the blood gushing onto the laminate floor. Mihael's glassy eyes move side to side until focusing on L's.
"See," Rod says as he dies. "See."
And L sees.
Mihael wakes in a hospital bed. Someone is holding his hand.
To his left is a man with eyes blacker than oilspills.
"Hey," he says tiredly.
Mihael's voice is deeper than L expected.
"Is he dead?" Mihael asks.
"Yes."
Mihael's shoulders slump. "Okay. That's. Yeah. Do you have any chocolate?"
Light enters, carrying lunch trays. He gives the one covered in vending machine sweets to L, and the other with a proper lunch to Mihael.
Mihael doesn't touch the meatloaf covered in congealed gravy, or the slice of Wonderbread slathered in strawberry jelly. He shines the gala apple on his bedsheets and takes small bites.
L stays by Mihael's side for three days.
They don't talk much. They shower less. When Light visits, he brings baby wipes and Marou chocolate, cut by the slab and wrapped in linen.
They both love him a little more for it.
The FBI have L on indefinite stay in Virginia. They want the copycat sussed out alive, someone breathing who they can pin the anguishes of the childless living. The pay is less than what Spain is currently offering him, and the body count is far below the butchered politicians turning up in Burma.
But L doubts the ringing is louder anywhere else than it is in Wolf Trap.
"Your cologne is fucking awful," Light says.
They are driving to an early morning briefing. In the wee hours, buses blinker on blue lights for early riders. It paints the trees surrounding them in eerie shades, startling howls out of the foxes who lurk by the road. They leave the rodents they had eviscerated and retreat to the safety of the underbrush, letting their prey bleed out, uneaten. It's a gory morning sight of viscera, mottled with ticks and hazed of flies, made worse by the cloyingly sweet, matutinal scents of Venice mallows and California poppies, swelling to bloom in the twilight. It all threatens to be one swerve or inhale away from a very bad trip. L rolls down the window and continues driving straight.
"How so? I've been told it suits me."
"It leaves an unhappy aftertaste," Light says, drumming his fingers on the dashboard in tune to the radio's soft crooning.
"I apologize for the disgust my stench induces. I'll be sure to spray something tasty on next time."
"Yes, please do. I'd rather my impression of you be liberated from any falseness."
"We both know that's not happening," L says under his breath.
"At the very least, don't wear it tonight. My dinner guests would be appalled."
L barks out a laugh. "You cocky shit. Do you really think I'd want to suffer the company of your so-called friends after a day cross-examining idiots? No thank you. I'll have wasted enough time as is."
"Wasted?"
"Oh, come off. Questioning today's witnesses will be futile and you know it. Groups of people don't just drop dead of heart attacks all at once, much less with several organs removed. I'd prefer looking at autopsy results or visiting the crime scene again."
"Tell you what. Drop by for a bite. We'll slip out after the main course and go crime-fighting."
L tries to object, but catches sight of an oddly gentle smile on Light's face. It makes L uneasy to see, like he's pulled off one mask and found another.
"Well, all right," he finds himself saying.
"Any preferences? Besides cavity-inducing."
"Just no acts of cannibalism. I've had my full with the Shrike."
"That's fine," Light says. "Teenage girls are controversial dishes in these parts anyway."
Mihael hates letting food go to waste. After binging on chocolates with European names (they make him forget the round-the-clock sourness in his mouth, if only for a while) for a week, he tries to eat the other gifts Light has left him.
Usually, the night-shift nurse has to dump whatever meal Light leaves in a thermos after his visits, but today Mihael thinks he can handle it. Light said he'd made a "spiced stew of veal marinated in the juices of sun-ripened tomatoes, with dried ancho chiles and kidney beans, all garnished with chocolate para mesa."
In other words, chili with chocolate in it, L had said.
Unscrewing the lid, a rush of savory steam hits Mihael. His mouth can't help but water, despite what his mind reminds him the smell of cooked meat should mean.
So Mihael eats.
He does not gag when he tastes something familiar.