Author's note: Thanks a lot for all the reviews. They surely are appreciated.
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Chapter Six – They Became Part Of Me
It was a hot day for February. The sun was not only shining but Jane could feel its heat through her vest as well. If she hadn't been squatting behind a police car – ready to open fire if the man in front of her didn't put his gun on the ground – she would have taken her jacket off and put her sunglasses on.
It smelled of Chinese food, of spices and of grease. She would give anything for a bowl of rice and a few spring rolls. It was almost 2pm and she hadn't eaten anything since the first hours of the morning. She clenched her jaw and squinted her eyes at the suspect.
"I said put your gun down. And now. C'mon." Her hoarse voice rose in the air with calm and self-confidence.
As much as each case was different, she had lived this scene many times already. She knew what to, and when. She was in control of the situation.
Besides, Frost and Korsak were there. Three against one. Their suspect knew that it was the end of his run. Nothing bad could happen. Nothing at all.
Thirty-six years old - father of two children – and an angelic smile. The perfect neighbor everyone wanted to have. But Jane knew better. The most dangerous men too often hid behind the friendliest features; behind the softest voices.
This one was no exception to the rule.
Then everything sped up like in a Hollywood action movie. The contrast with the wait – with the surge of adrenaline – marked the turning point every single cop had learned to handle at the Academy. She noticed his rictus – a two-second one – before he started rising his arm to aim at them. She didn't hear the door, she didn't see it get open.
She didn't see Hannah run outside.
She opened fire and all of a sudden a little girl fell down right at the guy's feet. A sickening magician's trick that would have made her appear out of nowhere.
Taken aback, the suspect dropped his gun and Frost and Korsak rushed to him in order to neutralize him. Jane however remained by the car, her eyes on the body that now lay on the asphalt.
She never looked at the backdoor of the building on their right again, the one through which Hannah had stormed out.
Neither did she look at the suspect ever again.
Instead, she kept on staring at the twelve-year-old girl bleed to death. It didn't last long. She had shot her in the head.
The last thing she saw turned out to be the sun, the blue sky. A beautiful image. But who cares about it when you're about to die? When you're twelve years old and you understand you're dying all alone?
Cut. Back to April. Exit Chinatown. She was in Maine, now. Not in Boston.
Jane opened her eyes but didn't move an inch. She had got used so much to her recurrent nightmares that they didn't startle her anymore. Her heart wasn't beating faster, she wasn't shaking. From the outside, it just seemed like she had woken up from a random dream.
She rolled on her back – took a deep breath – then looked at Maura. She was peacefully sleeping next to her; clutched to her pillow as if her life depended on it. A strand of blond hair was hiding half of her face. She didn't look fragile, just at peace with herself. Jane envied her immediately.
With an extreme care, she approached her friend and cuddled against her. She needed to feel the heat of her body, to hear her breathing against her cheek.
Then it brought back these feelings that had invaded her the last time she had grabbed her hand: a surge of comfort mixed with an immense warmth. The combination tickled her lower stomach. Pleasantly, secretly. Something kept on telling her that these blurry feelings shouldn't be but she had no hold over them.
She was shamefully getting addicted to the sensation they seemed to bring.
...
She looked tired. Dark circles under her hazel eyes showed through the foundation she had just applied and her complexion seemed to be fairer than it usually was. She hadn't slept well.
Annoyed, Maura grabbed a hair tie and tied her hair up in a ponytail. She reluctantly walked out of the bathroom then stared at the unmade bed.
She couldn't stand Jane's silence over her nightmares. The psychiatrist had been very clear. She had to talk about them, to share her feelings about them; what she saw, what woke her up in the middle of the night. But whenever Maura tried to start the conversation, Jane locked herself in her stubborn mutism or simply left the room.
Like now.
- How will I know that I am doing the right things? How will I know that I am not hurting her, even unintentionally?
- Your love for Jane will make sure that you listen to your heart. Your conscience will follow. You don't have to obsess over it. It is a natural process. We all have the ability to face this.
"What are you doing on the floor by the sliding doors?"
Jane wouldn't answer her question. She hated talking during the morning that followed a bad night. Perhaps she thought that she could fool Maura thanks to her silence but the truth was that the expression on her face spoke for her. Loudly.
Her features were deep by then, dark. They only managed to echo the vacant look she had. She looked like a ghost, a terrified one at the mercy of her very own cruel thoughts.
"Waitin' for the snails. Martha said there were snails when it rained."
For the first time since they had arrived at Moosehead Lake, the sun had vanished behind a heavy curtain of gray clouds and a torrential downpour had soon cancelled their plan to go for a walk on the other bank.
A gloomy day for a dark night made of nightmares.
It wasn't the kind of extended metaphor Maura wanted to face. The lack of sun weighed on her heart. It reminded her how she missed Boston; how she missed her house. The lab. Walking was nice but the torpor her brain was falling into was not really pleasant. She needed to find something to do. Something that would solicit her intelect.
"I would like to go to the movies. What do you think?"
Jane held her breath. Suggesting her a source of entertainment was incongruous. She understood that Maura wanted to have fun but she wouldn't allow it to herself.
"Then go."
Tea mug in her hand, Maura went to sit down next to her friend. The hardwood floor was warm. She brought the hot beverage to her lips and closed her eyes to enjoy better the heat that emanated from it. She was cold. Tired and cold.
Their hike on Mount Kineo seemed so far while it had barely happened two days earlier.
She missed the timid joy that had lit up Jane's features when they had reached the summit; the attitude she had had when they had come back to the cabin. She wasn't asking for this day to be a turning-point in their strange adventure but she had hoped – ridiculously enough – that it would put an end to the mood swings.
"What is the worst about them? What is it that sticks to your mind when you open your eyes and realize that you had a nightmare again?"
The question was direct but at this point, Maura couldn't care less. She was tired of letting go of it just as Jane was tired of living it over and over again.
"The smell. That peculiar Chinatown smell mixed to the warm asphalt and to the singular scent of gun powder. The smell is the worst. The smell remains."
The rest had turned blurry. Her memories were intense but lost in a fog. At first she had assumed that it was because of the meds she was taking but now that she had stopped her treatment, she realized that it was just a trick of her brain.
Jane subconsciously clenched her fists.
"I don't want to forget."
"I don't think you have to." Maura took another sip of her tea then put down the mug to hold Jane's hand tightly instead. She hadn't moved and kept on staring straight in front of her in a perfect parallel to Jane's own position. "You don't have to forget but you have to understand – and accept – that you don't have to blame yourself."
Jane pursed her lips to prevent some words from coming out. She would regret it if she happened to say them out loud. They wouldn't hurt Maura – not directly – but something told her that they were not appropriate nonetheless.
Perhaps because she knew deep inside that they weren't true.
"I don't paint dreams or nightmares. I paint my own reality."
Frida Khalo's quote almost brushed her lips but she swallowed it back as well. If she had always found the painter a bit too dark, Jane now completely understood every single word that had passed her lips at some point in her life. It took a depressed person to understand the helpless state of another one.
Eager to escape from her sudden awkwardness, she looked at the very far end of the covered porch where the wooden steps led downstairs to the paths.
"Oh my god! Look at that!"
"Look at what?"
A surge of excitement made Jane shift position.
Her forehead now leaned against the window, she pointed out the far end of the porch and started counted in a low voice.
Seven snails were slowly making their way towards them, parading under the rain in a perfect silence. Maura looked at them and couldn't help giggling. She was not impressed by such scene but Jane hopping up and down with impatience was a delightful thing to see. Delightful and unexpected.
She looked like a child. Inhabited by a sudden surge of life, carried by the innocence that made every single detail - even the most random ones - fascinating; extraordinary.
"I bet five dollars that the small green one – third on the left – will arrive first at our level."
The hesitation in Jane's eyes barely lasted two seconds. She accepted the challenge and shook Maura's hand to seal the deal.
"I place my bets on Marcel."
"Marcel?"
"Far right, the big one. It's chubby but it moves well."
Her enthusiasm was as unexpected as contagious. The speed of her speech delivery as well. Maura burst out laughing. Perhaps she wasn't doing as bad as she thought with Jane.
"Why do you call it Marcel?"
"It's a homage to the French. They're the ones who eat them." Jane paused. "By the way, you're not thinking about cooking any, are you?"
Of course Maura could have told her that the edible ones were mostly raised and belonged to a crop but she was so happy to see Jane in such a state – to see Jane be herself – that she decided to tease her the way they had always done. A delightful smirk played on her lips. She shrugged, pretending to ponder the idea.
"Maybe..."
"Ew! Gross!" Focused on the now official snail race, Jane shook her head. "Don't touch Marcel... You... Disgusting francophile."