Chapter 59: Paths Cross Again
Despite driving the west road out of Causton, Troy still squinted against the glare of sun in the mirrors in the mid-morning, the trees and shrubs along the roadside blurring into a mess of fading green and brown; it wasn't quite as sharp as staring into the sun, but nearly so. The vibrations under his palms and fingers, the thumps beneath the car and tires...he had missed all of them whilst he sat behind his desk at CID. He and Barnaby had spent most of the last two weeks huddled behind four walls, stifled beneath the quiet as they tried to discern the world from the words scrawled across a piece of paper. "Maybe we'll finally find something," Troy muttered, snapping the indicator on as he took a left turn away from the main Causton road, down one that fed to the smaller, feathery ones that snaked from one village to another.
"So, that's what you really think, Troy?"
"Well, I don't know, sir—"
"A tall, left-handed twenty-one year-old man who attends university in London—studying something you don't know—and has a car registered at what is probably a small cottage in Upper Warden after receiving a minor caution years ago."
Troy hooked his hand around the steering wheel, turning it over hard as a bend rose through the trees on either side of the road. "I know it's a long shot, sir."
"You're underselling that, Troy."
"But why else would he—"
"Or she," Barnaby interrupted; just at the corner of his eye, he saw the chief inspector reach for hand grip on the door panel.
Troy's fingers tightened around the wheel, his knuckles a pale pink. "Right, sir—why would he or she go for a left pane of the window, or the left of center if it didn't have panes?"
"Do you know if our gentleman is left-handed?"
The outskirts of Midsomer Worthy approaching, Troy shook his head, leaning forward to peer out the left window, past Barnaby who was checking watch yet again. Nothing coming from the crossroad. "No, sir. I rang them—Causton Comprehensive—I rang them again yesterday afternoon, trying to get back to that counselor. Already gone for the day."
"Very good, Troy. You're improving." Pointing toward the right, he added, "Turn here."
"Hmm?"
"Calling your alma mater twice in one day. Very impressive."
Troy let out a quiet sigh. Another thing there's no use talking to him about, he thought, following the new route as Barnaby asked. "It wasn't the best part of my day," he said, pressing his shoulders back against the driver's seat.
"But they are quite interesting, the possibilities you've uncovered—if still a bit far-fetched."
Shrugging his shoulders, Troy asked, "Do you have a better idea, sir?"
"Not as yet," Barnaby said quietly. "I suppose you're exercising your inner Sherlock Holmes."
"Eliminating the impossible?"
Barnaby nodded. "Exactly. No matter how improbable it might be to deduce so much sight unseen."
The core of one of Midsomer's more violent villages rose along the road, the last few quaint cottages crowded nearer and nearer together, replaced by modern houses and flats with their new shutters and square foundations. Not enough to keep you safe out this way, Troy thought, the village green looming in the distance. He'd passed through here often enough with Barnaby on the way to one grisly murder or another. All around them, even as the trees vanished, the final flush of orange and red leaves fell, blanketing the narrow dirt shoulder. Passing vehicles had already ground any on the pavement to dust—
Troy swallowed a groan as his gaze rose farther ahead on the road. Just up on the far edge of the green, tucked onto the shoulder at a bend in the road...well, he recognized the mobile library van anywhere. Another joke of yours? he wondered, checking over his shoulder for traffic. Detouring onto this peripheral path hadn't made any sense to begin—
"Pull over, Troy."
Despite Barnaby's request, his foot depressed the accelerator more heavily. "What, sir—"
"Here," the chief inspector said, pointing through the windscreen, straight at the boxy van.
"Sir—"
"It'll only be a moment. Upper Warden can spare a few minutes."
Ignoring another screech against the pavement, Troy guided the black sedan just off the edge of the road, the left tires landing in the edge of the grass. Barnaby had his door open first, as Troy was still unfastening his own seat belt. With the first step out into the cool morning, he bit down a cough at the gentle whirlwind of dust rising around him. Of course, he thought, brushing a thin layer away from his shoulder. The slam of the driver's door rang around the green, sharp and loud; he winced, tugging his suit coat down on his shoulders.
Even as he managed to keep pace with Barnaby, Troy's footsteps slowed, twisting against the scraps of dried leaves and dirt the rodents dragged in from the fields. He knew who sat behind the wheel of that van before it landed here for the day. As much as he missed her voice and the touch of her hand—and the warmth of her skin beneath his own—his stomach turned over when he imagined coming face to face with her again. Yesterday evening, just like all day Sunday, Troy had struggled with the ache and need to just talk to her again. Around eight, he had gotten so far as to open his phone, ready to find her name—before he snapped it shut again, settling back in the chair at his kitchen table. After all, what would he say, all the words dying on the tip of his tongue.
Just—don't act an idiot, he thought, catching up with Barnaby at the base of the short stair from the door, propped open to encourage patrons he assumed.
The chief inspector knocking firmly on the inside of the door, Troy couldn't ignore the quickening in his chest as he heard her say, "Come in!" Following Barnaby, he just swallowed against his newly parched mouth, sliding his palm up the handrail into the van.
The shelves lining the walls were filled with books, and not for the first time, he wondered how cautious she had to be around every turn. And...Toward the back, Cully had an armful of books, sorting some of them into a new stack, sliding others onto the bookshelves, her gaze caught on the titles. Her light hair hung loose, hiding her face, a white blouse brushing her hips and jeans...and he already caught himself staring. So much for that idea. Nearer two weeks than one since he had seen her, it was like seeing her for the first time at that bloody drama production. Like beholding something delicate before learning how hard it was and how hot it burned beneath the surface, stronger than him.
Still clutching the pile of books, she turned toward them—and Troy nearly lost himself in her smile, though he knew it wasn't for him. "Dad! I didn't expect to see you." Finally setting the books aside, her eyes landed on him. "Hi, Gavin," she added.
"Hi," he answered quietly, hoping his cheeks weren't tinted pink. His gaze danced to Barnaby for a second—just enough to know if he was being surreptitiously observed, a technique the chief inspector had long ago perfected—before he allowed himself to really look at her. Her pale eyes and fair skin were still lovely, the gentle curve of her jaw giving way to her neck, a thin chain hanging down—
"What are you doing here?" Cully's words shattered his exploration of her, a sudden reminder: now, she was just Cully Barnaby again, DCI Barnaby's only daughter, nothing more. Whatever she had been before, he had to keep her there.
"I forgot earlier, could you do me a favor?"
"Of course," she said.
Turning away from his boss and the man's daughter, Troy thrust his hands in his pockets, leaning forward to peer at the selection of books set right by the entrance, propped up to display their titles to any patron who wandered by, whenever that might be. A few volumes of Arthur Conan Doyle (No escaping Holmes today, is there?), a novel or two and a collection of short stories by Agatha Christie (Always the obvious suspect with her.), something by Clive Barker (The thief of what?), and a few thin novels emblazoned with Stephen King on the spine (Bloody crazy Americans.). "All set up for October here?" he asked, glancing toward the far end of the van.
Although her eyes darted to him for a moment, they didn't linger, instead returning to inspect the top book on her pile. "It's that time of year, Gavin, we already talked about that."
I suppose we did, he thought, fully turning back from the forest of mystery and horror. "Right." That night felt so long ago, even though it wasn't quite two weeks in the past: warmth melded with the chill of a night whose sky erupted with a downpour he couldn't have imagined, driving him to her beneath the shelter beneath the eaves of old Causton. And even as it drifted further from now into memory, he couldn't banish it from his head. It lingered as the minutes wore on, refusing to be silent as he struggled against his words and wondered how they had become so difficult so quickly.
"Your mother's been looking for a book on over-wintering plants. Could you see if you can find something before you leave for the evening?"
That's all we stopped for? He saw the same confusion on her face.
"You could have just called," she said, still sorting through her books, turning the top one over to check the title.
"We were passing by," Barnaby said.
"What's happened in Midsomer Worthy now?"
"Just driving through, that's all," Troy added.
Cully wielded her gaze just as her father did, like she could peer right through him: see the turmoil and hear his thoughts. He nearly ground a shoe on the rough carpet, trying to forget the weight of her eyes. "Of course," she muttered, twisting away from him again.
"With some luck, she'll—" A ringing cut off Barnaby's words. Troy fished his mobile from his pocket, but it was dark and silent. "That'll be for me," the chief inspector said, reaching for his own and pressing it to his ear. "Barnaby. Yes, I thought you might—oh." After a few seconds he said, "Sorry, the reception is terrible." He covered the mouthpiece with his hand. "I'll only be a minute or two," he said to his daughter. And with another few quiet words to whomever held the receiver at the other end of the call, he disappeared back into Midsomer Worthy's bright and cheery morning, leaving them alone.
Together. And nothing about that was incidental, he knew Barnaby better than that; driving through Midsomer Worthy to reach Upper Warden hadn't been necessary in the least. That phone call Barnaby had ducked away to answer might have been unexpected and unplanned, but all those questions yesterday had not. Searching for how it all adds up, sir? His mouth was drying, still searching for the words he needed as the air grew heavier and the distance between them seemed to grow. She shelved one book, then another, her hand tightening around the spine of each.
Why didn't you follow Barnaby? he asked himself, the rest of his mind going blank. Don't pretend you don't know. Why else did you fancy calling her yesterday? "Really have your finger on the pulse of Midsomer, eh, going around like this?" God, that sounded hollow even to him.
"Maybe." She still didn't look at him. You're not making this easier, Cully. What do you want me to say to that?
Another book thudded onto the shelf, rather harder than before. "Where are you and Dad heading?" she asked, dropping the next onto the growing pile that belonged elsewhere. "If you're just passing through."
"Upper Warden," Troy said, taking a step closer, "probably a wild goose chase."
"Oh?"
He laughed quietly. "I'm sure you'll hear all about it."
"Probably. We usually do." Cully looked down, a book in either hand. "I hope you find what you're looking for."
"Right." He cleared his throat. "Just—let me know, how it goes."
She nodded. "Sure."
Cully didn't want to talk now, that was obvious. Exactly why I'd rather not be here, he thought, biting his lip for a moment, leaning back against the shelves, the thin wood pressing against his shoulders and the middle of his back. "Look, can we talk—some time soon?" He inhaled sharply. "Please, Cully."
"I think it..." She released a breath, finally dropping the last books onto the lip of the bottom shelf. "I think it might be a bit late for that."
"At least, just tell me—"
"Nothing is ever for free, Gavin." She crossed her arms, tucking her hands into her elbows, at last turning to face him as they stood alone, that heavy gaze still boring into him. "Especially..." Even across those few feet between them, Troy thought he saw her her chest and her breasts rise faster, like she was breathing faster. He was just holding his own breathing close, though just standing here with her, he couldn't stop the quicker heartbeats throbbing within his own ribs.
"Do you think I don't know that?" he asked quietly, drawing his right hand from his pocket. For once in the last couple of days, it was empty but for his keys. After the weekend and yesterday, he had struggled against shoving his half empty pack of cigarettes into his pocket again, already feeling the damp cough gripping his lungs.
"That's not what I meant," Cully said with a shake of her head.
Troy finally chanced a step forward, a foot closer—not ready to risk something more. "Then what?"
"I couldn't tell—anymore," she said softly, her cheeks flushing—but she didn't move away from him. "If you were taking me for granted."
"I couldn't do that, Cully." God, more than anything he couldn't—wouldn't—do that; if anything, he just stumbled over his words like he always did. "You must—"
"I know, Gavin, I really do."
His fingers were twitching. "Just...I didn't know what to say."
Dropping her arms to her sides, Cully leaned back against the bookshelves as he had, folding her palms around one of them, looking away. "Then why didn't you call me on Sunday, like you said you would?"
Swallowing around a new lump in his throat, Troy finally managed, "I didn't think you wanted me to."
She didn't answer, but turned back to him, her lips just parted. A year ago, he wouldn't have even noticed. "Why wouldn't I?"
His arms nearly tingling, Troy had to pull both hands from his pockets this time. Well, what good does that do? Her hand was so close to his own, so close he could grab it if he wished, and say—something. "You sounded so angry, Saturday—"
"I was." With another sigh, she looked down. "Sorry, I'm not sure there's too much to do about it now."
"We could at least talk about it."
"What did we do on Saturday?"
"That wasn't much of a talk—"
"Troy." The chief inspector's voice broke through their conversation, and Troy felt all the words he had been preparing vanish.
"Just a moment, sir," he said loudly, and he didn't miss the tiny smile on Cully's face. God, he missed it. "Anyway—when is it again? Your audition."
"Saturday week, that morning," she said, chancing her own approach toward him, pushing away from the shelves. "I'll have to take an early train."
"Just—let me know how it goes."
"Of course," she said, nodding as she turned back to the books lining the interior of the van, clasping her hands behind her back. "I already told them I might not be here to drive this thing for much longer."
"I'm sure they'll be sad to see you go."
Cully even laughed for a second. "I may even miss it, at least a little."
"I hope so, after—so long."
"I guess." She even glanced back at him, just for a moment. "I'll see you around, Gavin."
"Yeah."
Troy didn't glance back as he clamored down the short set of stairs to the dusty shoulder and the crunchy leaves already ground to rubbish, his shoes kicking up a cloud around the bottom of his trousers. If he had turned around, it might have hurt more. And just like he knew the man would, Barnaby was waiting by the door, resting against the creamy metal.
"Thought you'd never be done talking," he muttered, leading the way back to the car.
Pulling his keys from his pocket, Troy said, "It wasn't that long, sir."
"It sure seemed it."
"That's hardly my fault, is it?" he asked, yanking the driver's door open harshly.
"Work, Troy."
Closing his door with a sharp crack, Troy found a deep breath as he tugged his seat belt over his chest, fastening it into the clasp with a gentle click. "Yes, sir." He turned the key over in the ignition, the grumbling of the engine drowning out his own thoughts. Probably for the best, he thought, spinning the steering wheel to the right as he bore down on the accelerator and Barnaby hissed at the sudden speed and screech of tires. "Careful!"
"Sorry, sir." As Troy relaxed back into his seat and quiet settled between them, an unease was growing in his stomach again. He recognized the empty face Barnaby wore right now: thinking, considering, analyzing. The man's mind was anything but blank and quiet at the moment. "Anything interesting, that phone call?" he finally asked, catching the turn back to the main road. The unruly stretch of village road gave way to the better kept county road, the dirt and grass shoulder suddenly paved, any ancient ditches filled and transformed to pavement.
"Yes, quite," Barnaby said. "Among many things."
"How so, sir?"
He just heard the screech of another set of tires before the chief inspector shouted: "Troy!"
A/N: Don't ask me why, this made me think of "Virginia Woolf" by Indigo Girls. Different context, different subject matter…? I guess it's the common themes of loss and self knowledge?