My Town
7. Twelve Days
"Dylan! Get down here!"
Norma's voice trilled up the stairs, and Dylan jumped in fright, guiltily trying to stuff the magazine he'd been reading under his pillow. When he realised what he was doing, he stopped himself, and brought the magazine back out. He was, he told himself, a grown man. If he wanted to read a magazine in which beautiful women, proud of their bodies, posed topless for a series of tasteful images, then he could do exactly that. It wasn't any of his mom's business.
"Dylan!"
"I'm busy!" he called back.
"Well we're having a family meeting, and as long as you're living under this roof, you're a part of this family. So either get your ass down here pronto, or get your stuff and get out."
He sighed, closed the mag, and stashed it under his mattress. Technically, he had enough money saved now to move out and get a place of his own. With what he'd earned from Gil, on top of the five grand Ethan had given him, he could put down a deposit on a nice place… his arm was more than healed enough now, Shelby's glancing bullet graze barely even causing a twinge.
But every time he thought about moving out, a tiny voice inside his head said 'tomorrow.' And each time 'tomorrow' came around, something else caused him to stay. First it had been Norma getting arrested for Keith's murder. Then it had been Norman's revelation about the girl in Shelby's basement. After that had been Shelby's attack on the family, followed by the arrival, and then terminal departure, of Jake Abernathy.
Now, his family was safe. Now, there was nothing stopping him. Nothing except that tiny voice in his head, which told him, 'tomorrow.' That, and the memory of Romero watching Norman with a look of speculation in those cold, almost-black eyes of his. That was the moment Dylan had realised the true name of the town. It wasn't White Pine Bay. It was Shit Creek, and he was somehow up it without a paddle.
Norma's words sparked his curiosity, so he left his room and descended the stairs. He found Norman sitting on the sofa, and Norma standing in front of the fireplace, arms folded across her chest, a determined look on her face. Uh-oh, he thought, as he joined his brother on the couch. Whatever Norma was planning, this couldn't be good.
"Since when do we have family meetings?" he asked.
"Since now," Norma replied, whilst Norman looked on bemused. "Look, I've been thinking. This hasn't been a great year for us. Things started out pretty bad, with our money problems, and then Sam's death, and moving here, and the whole Asian sex slave trafficking thing… but just because the year started bad doesn't mean it has to end bad, right?"
Dylan looked to Norman, saw the same concerned confusion in his brother's eyes. Norma watched, expectation written all over her face.
"Right," Norman agreed, before Dylan could ask what crazy new plan she was concocting.
"So," Norma continued, "Dylan, you're going to take your brother into town and get us the biggest tree you can find. And lots of trimmings, too. We're going to decorate the entire house, and the motel office, and on Christmas Eve I'm going to cook us a nice meal, and we're going to have a proper family Christmas."
This time, Dylan spoke up first. "Um… we are?"
"Yes, we are. And there will be presents, too." When her suggestion was met with less enthusiasm than she was probably expecting, her voice took on a wheedling tone. "C'mon you guys. Do you even remember how we spent Thanksgiving?"
Dylan shook his head. Thanksgiving had never been a big thing on his list. Then again, neither had Christmas, or Birthdays. Those things only really applied to you if your name was Norman.
"Dylan, you were out somewhere, probably sitting in the middle of a pot field," his mom continued, "and Norman you spent almost the whole night sulking about something in your bedroom. Well, I'm fed up of it. We are going to have one single day of being a normal family. We deserve it, after all the shit we've been through. So start getting in the mood for Christmas, because we're going to have fun if it's the last thing we do. Oh, and Norman, if you want to invite Emma and Mr. Decody, that's fine."
Norman shifted in his seat, his eyes darting everywhere around the room before settling back on his mother. Dylan could almost feel the waves of discomfort rolling off him.
"Oh, um, that's okay Mom," he said. "I'd prefer our first Christmas here to be just the three of us. I'm sure Mr. Decody's already made plans for Emma."
"Well, it wouldn't hurt to check, would it?"
"I guess not."
"Good." Norma offered both of her sons a bright smile. "Now, get going before all the best trees go!"
Dylan blinked. "What, you want us to go now?"
"Uh, yeah? There's only twelve days left until Christmas, genius, and we've got a lot to do."
"Why don't I just cut you a tree the next time I'm out in—"
Norma held up one finger. "Don't even think about finishing that sentence, Dylan. First of all, I don't want a tree from anywhere near those pot fields. It'll probably smell bad. And second, I want a nice tree. One that's been grown just for this purpose. And has some of that fake snow on the top of it."
"Why don't you come and pick the tree out yourself?" he suggested. "Because if I come back with the wrong tree, and you flip out over it…"
"Flip out," she said, making air-quotes around the words. "I'm not going to 'flip out,' Dylan, it's just a tree. I think I can trust you to pick out a nice tree for our first ever real family Christmas. Right?"
He sighed. "Right. Grab your coat, Norman. Christmas awaits us."
"Yeah, okay," Norman agreed.
"And don't forget the trimmings!" Norma called after them.
Dylan shrugged on his favourite leather jacket—admittedly, his only leather jacket, but it was still his favourite—and pulled his car keys from his pocket. Fortunately, they were the keys for the shiny black pickup, which also happened to be his favourite car. Not that the Humvee Gil had lent him was a bad car… it had been an adequate substitute whilst the pickup was having two new wheels fitted and its suspension softened to give a smoother ride up the mountain roads. He was glad to have it back.
A chill in the winter air nipped at his skin when he stepped outside, but it wasn't as cold here as some of the places he'd been. It was downright balmy, compared to winters in South Dakota. Here, the warm sea currents kept away the worst of the cold weather, and he suspected it rarely snowed this close to the coast.
"Mom really seems to be getting into the festive spirit," Norman remarked as he caught up with his elder brother.
"Yeah, but when something goes wrong—either the food burns, or the tree's the wrong shape, or the tinsel's not the right colour—we'll be the ones to get it in the neck," he said. Then he winced at his own words. The first friend he'd made in the town, Ethan, had been shot in the neck by some druggie scum-bag. It was the first time Dylan had seen somebody shot, and the first time he'd had to watch someone die. Despite the job that he did, Ethan was a good guy. He hadn't deserved to go like that, and Dylan had hated how powerless it made him feel, to watch his friend bleed to death.
"I really think this could be like a new start for us," Norman replied. Dylan shook his head. Norman was a blind optimist at times. He just couldn't see Norma's flaws, how she lived for drama, how she caused most of her own problems then played the part of damsel in distress… and played it badly. Still, she was his mother, and she was right when she said they'd all been through a lot of shit recently. He was willing to try and make an effort… just for one day.
The sound of tyres on stone chippings heralded the arrival of a car. As Emma Decody's bright orange Beetle came to a halt, Dylan noticed his brother stop walking, his eyes fixed on the garishly coloured vehicle. Emma climbed out, carrying her oxygen tank behind her. She looked paler than usual, and Dylan wondered if she'd been ill recently. But she barely even acknowledged him, glancing at him with the briefest of smiles before turning her gaze back to Norman.
"Hey. Can we talk?" she said.
"My… uh… mom wants Dylan and I to drive to town to pick up some stuff for Christmas," Norman said, edging backwards ever so slightly.
Dylan fought back a grin. It was good to see his little brother acting like a normal teenage guy for once, though he had no idea what Emma saw in him. Norman was tall and gangly, with a plain yet serene face, and eerie dark eyes. He wouldn't be winning any modelling contracts any time soon.
"It's okay, man," he told his brother. "I can get the tree myself, it's no big. You guys talk." He caught Emma's eye and nodded to the house. "Just beware of the Christmas Nazi."
"Right," Emma said. "Can we talk in the office, Norman?"
"Sure. Of course. That's fine," Norman said, his face warring between stricken panic and maniacal grin. Dylan watched the pair walk side by side until they entered the office, then he turned back to his car.
"Dylan!"
He heard his voice called from across the car park, and saw the English woman, Grace, jogging towards him. With her pale skin, coppery red hair and intelligent grey eyes which showed a hint of blue in the sunlight, she was pretty enough, if a little older than his usual taste. She'd managed to find a pair of jeans from somewhere, and was wearing a dark blue polo-neck sweater beneath a black parka which cinched in at the waste, showing that somewhere beneath the layers she actually possessed a pleasant figure.
"Are you going into town?" she asked.
"Yeah."
"Mind if I catch a ride with you?"
"Of course not." Then, he caught sight of the satchel she often carried on her excursions into White Pine Bay. "Going to the library again?"
"Where else?" she said, with a conspiratorial smile.
He helped her climb into the pickup, then took the driver's seat and started the engine. "How long are you planning on staying here?" he asked, as he set the car onto the road to town.
"Is there some immediate need for me to leave?" she countered.
"Oh, no, nothing of the sort," he assured her, mentally booting himself for making it sound that way. "I was just making small talk. You know, I wondered how long you'd be in White Pine Bay for, and when you'd be going back to England."
"Ahh."
He waited for a moment, and when she didn't answer, he prompted her again. "Well?"
"I will be in White Pine Bay for as long as I need to be. And I will return home when my work is done. Or when my grant money runs out. It really depends on which happens first."
"You're not going home for the holidays?"
"No."
"Oh." He glanced at her, and wondered why she was so cagey. She'd been like this the other times he'd spoken with her, either answering his questions with one-word responses, or posing questions of her own. If he could just get her to open up… "Do you have any family back home?" he tried.
"Some."
"Won't they miss you, over Christmas?"
"No."
"I see."
"I'm glad you do."
There was silence as they passed a mile marker, and when he glanced at her again he found her watching him, her grey eyes weighing him up on some unseen scale. It was damn weird, and made a chill run up his spine.
"What?" he demanded, suddenly conscious that his gun was no longer tucked down the back of his pants. It was back home, in one of his drawers, and now he felt naked without it. He silently berated himself for leaving it behind.
"You seem like a very resourceful young man."
"Young man? You're like what, eight years older than me?"
She gave him an eerie smile. "Quite. Anyway, my point is, I'm in need of something. Something that a resourceful young man may be able to help me procure."
"Oh? And what is it you're in need of?" Despite his suspicion, his curiosity was piqued once more.
"First, understand that I'm not asking you for a favour, just a supply link. I can pay you in full, up front."
"Pay me for what?"
"A bottle of twenty-five year old Laphroaig," she replied, saying the last word with a stronger than usual accent.
It took him a moment to figure out what she was asking for, and when he did, he almost laughed at the inanity of it. "You want me to get you a bottle of Scotch?"
"No, you uncultured barbarian," she replied, "I want you to get me a bottle of the finest single malt whisky ever distilled. 'Scotch,' he says," she snorted in disgust.
"You drink whiskey?"
"Well I didn't want a bottle just to look at it."
"But why Laphroaig? What's wrong with Jack?"
"Oh, nothing," she said, offering a sweet smile. "It's my solvent of choice for whenever I need to strip paint from a wall. For actual consumption, though, I prefer something that tastes a little less vitriolic."
"Fair enough." He could take the slur on his country's finest alcoholic export. The woman was obviously just a whiskey-snob. "So why all the secrecy? The way you were talking, I thought you were going to ask me to score you a few lines of coke or something. I can't do that, by the way."
"Ahh, well, you see, Laphroaig, as I've discovered, is very rare over here. In England, an eighteen year old bottle costs about a hundred dollars, or perhaps a little more. I don't know the current exchange rate. And I'd like a bottle of twenty-five, which is even rarer, and even more expensive."
"Why not settle for the eighteen?"
"I will, if I have to." She rolled her eyes. "Hell, I'd settle for a bottle of five-year Glenfiddich, after months of seeing little other than bourbon and hearing all single malts referred to as 'scotch.' I'm sorry if I made my request sound rather lurid. The truth is, I miss home, and Laphroaig reminds me of home."
"Did you grow up in a whiskey distillery?"
"Something like that," she agreed. "And I'd like to take advantage of my grant money whilst I still have it. Don't worry if you can't get Laphroaig, like I said, I'd settle for a cheaper alternative. As long as it isn't any form of bourbon."
"I'll see what I can do," he said, promising nothing. He liked a challenge, and it would be interesting to see just how hard it could be to get his hands on a rare bottle of scotch.
"Thank you, Dylan. And like I said, I'll pay in advance. Just let me know if you can get it."
"I will," he assured her. But that was for later. Right now, he had to find the perfect Christmas tree, otherwise Norma might just kill him with the gun he'd taught her to use.
"It's lovely here," she said. Glancing at her, he saw her staring out of the window and across the bay, where fishing ships were bringing in their hauls.
"Reminds you of home?" he guessed.
"The weather, certainly. But the landscape's a little more rugged. A little wilder."
"What's England like?" He wouldn't have minded seeing it, one day. Travelling Europe was on his bucket list.
She smiled. "Gently rolling chalk hills in the south meet craggy, weather-worn mountains in the north. Seen from the air, the farmlands are like a patchwork quilt of pasturelands and crop fields, separated by a maze of centuries-old dry stone walls. And the cities look so tiny when you're above them, as if they're trying desperately to fill the land around them, stretching out their roads to tenuously touch each other."
"Sounds very… poetic."
"It is."
After a few minutes of driving in silence, White Pine Bay appeared on the road ahead. The town sprawled along the coast, white buildings seemingly dropped at random the further away from the town you went. As far as small towns were concerned, it wasn't a bad one. The roads were wide and rarely suffered gridlock, a few memorials to the town's history were scattered around, in the form of a yardarm, a ship's wheel and a giant bronze-cast logging saw, and overall it was the type of place where people could walk down the streets at night and not have to worry about looking over their shoulders.
The peace and tranquillity was a façade, a thin veneer draped over the dark shadows which roamed the streets and dwelt in the homes of the townsfolk. It was little more than a cheap illusion, designed to trick visitors and newcomers into believing that all was well. Miraculously, the illusion worked, and even Dylan had been taken in by it. He hadn't figured out, yet, how it all worked, why everything didn't fall apart, and who exactly was controlling the smoke and mirrors, and he wasn't sure he wanted to know either. Knowledge could be a dangerous thing, and in White Pine Bay, knowing something you weren't supposed to could potentially be lethal.
He stopped at a red light and glanced out of the side window. When he saw who was standing barely a dozen feet away, clustered amongst a group of her friends, his breath caught in his throat. Bradley Martin was the most beautiful girl he had ever seen. Not only was she beautiful, she was perfect. She was neither too tall nor too short, was slender without being skeletal-thin, and her face was a work of art. Large expressive eyes sat in a face of flawless skin, above a nose which was just the right size for her face. Her mouth was small but her lips proportionately plump, and when she smiled her whole face was lit up by an inner radiance. Long, perfectly straight ash-blonde hair cascaded down her back in a river of softness, and she always smelt of flowers.
She seemed to sense that she was being watched, and as Dylan looked at her, she turned, her expressive eyes finding his and holding his stare for a long moment. Her lips tugged up at the corners into a smile that was secretive, and coy, and self-conscious all at the same time. She lifted her hand, her slender fingers straightening as she gave him a small wave, something created for his eyes alone.
"Is that your girlfriend?" Grace asked, intruding on the moment.
"No," Dylan replied. He felt his breath release from his throat. "No, she's one of Norman's friends from school."
"She likes you."
"Nah," he said, shaking his head, feeling like he was twelve years old and explaining himself to a teacher after being caught doing something particularly naughty. He didn't like the knowing look in Grace's eyes. "She's just grateful because I did her a favour recently."
"Mm-hmm." The English woman arched an eyebrow in amusement. "And you are aware, yes, that the traffic light changed to green whilst you were quite clearly not having eye-sex with Norman's friend from school who's just grateful because you did her a favour?"
"Shit," he said, and put his foot down on the gas before the cars behind could start honking. "Wait a minute… eye-sex? What the hell is that? Actually, I'm not sure I want to know."
Grace rolled her eyes. "It's the moment in which you catch someone's eye across a distance, and you convey how you feel about them with nothing but your gaze. And there's a spark that you feel deep inside, which tells you that the person you're looking at is having exactly the same thoughts as you. The rest of the world ceases to exist, and that moment stretches out to become your own private eternity, in which thought and action and intention are one. That's eye-sex. Maybe you know it as something else."
"You're nuts," he said, with a shake of his head.
"It has been said. But then again, I wasn't the one not noticing the traffic lights, was I?"
Thankfully, the library loomed into view as Dylan turned the next corner, and he wasted no time in pulling into a bay so he could be rid of his passenger.
"Thank you very much for the ride, Dylan," she said. "May I offer you a piece of advice?"
"Sure," he replied, already dreading what new embarrassing things she was going to say.
"Beware of pretty girls who know how pretty they are, because will use their looks to ensnare your mind and before you know it you'll be wrapped around someone's little finger." She crooked her pinky for maximum effect. "Trust me when I say, you're better off alone."
"Thank you so much for channelling my mother right there." It seemed his fate to be surrounded by crazy women. "Anyway, I'm going to be in town for a couple of hours, so if you want a ride back to the motel, meet me here at five, okay?"
"Appreciate it," she nodded. "See you later."
He watched as she slid from the high vehicle's seat and landed gracefully on the sidewalk. She gave him a tight smile as she slammed the door closed, then shouldered her satchel and disappeared into the library. Shaking his head, he pulled out of the car park and began looking for somewhere, anywhere, that sold Christmas trees.
Women, he thought. I just don't understand them.
o - o - o - o - o
Norman stepped into the office, followed by Emma and her O2 tank, and when he heard her pull the door closed he tried not to panic, to look around for another exit route. He hadn't spoken to her since that night at the dance, when she'd gotten angry with him for looking at Bradley so much. Since she ran away in tears from the first school dance she'd ever been to.
He'd tried to talk to her. When he'd seen her in the corridors, she'd blanked him. He'd stood next to her at her locker, offering apologies for his behaviour, but she'd ignored him. In class, when they'd formed groups to partake in debates on politics, she hadn't responded to any of his rebuttals. He'd felt sick all week over the thought that he'd lost his first, best, and only friend in White Pine Bay. And now that she was here, he wasn't ready to talk. He hadn't prepared for it. Reality was spiralling out of control around him.
"So," he said, as she turned her brown eyes towards him. She really did have beautiful eyes. He hadn't realised until now just how much emotion they could convey. "Here we are. In the office. Talking."
"First of all," she said, "I want to apologise for what I said at the dance. It was wrong of me. I can't make you feel a certain way about me, and even if I could, I wouldn't want to force you into feeling something that you can't feel on your own. Does that make sense?"
"Yeah, I guess," he agreed, because she'd started talking really quickly, and seeing her nervous did nothing for his nerves.
"Good." She took a deep breath. "Because I've been doing a lot of thinking over this past week. And I've realised that if you feel for Bradley even half of what I feel for you, then the way you are around her… it's pretty much out of your control. You can't help wanting to look at her, wanting to talk to her and be near her, just as I can't help wanting to look at you, wanting to talk and be near to you. So I understand how you're feeling, and I know how irrational those feelings are, and how they make you do and say crazy things. "I'm also really sorry for ignoring you this past week. But I've just needed time, and space to figure things out inside my own head. Y'know?"
"Yeah."
"I told you before that I don't want to lose you as my friend, Norman Bates, and that sentiment still stands. If you can accept me being a bit crazy from time to time, I'd still like to be your friend. You know, if you'd still like to be mine."
"I would," he told her, putting as much conviction into his words as he could possibly manage. Sometimes, he felt like Emma was the only one who truly understood him.
"I'm so glad to hear it." Tears began to form in her brown eyes, and she opened her arms out. "Friends?"
"Friends," he agreed, stepping into her embrace and wrapping his arms around her for a tight hug. At that moment, he noticed the sun begin to stream in through the window, filling the office with warm yellow light. Suddenly, all of his fears and concerns, about school, about Miss Watson, about Bradley and Dylan, seemed… less. As if Emma was lending him her strength.
She pulled away from him and took a deep breath, her lower lip quivering ever so slightly.
"There's something I have to tell you," she said.
"What is it?"
"I have to leave."
And just like that, the sun disappeared behind the clouds, the room grew cold and all of his fears and concerns loomed over him once more, threatening to bring his whole world crashing down.
"Wh—what do you mean?"
"You know I'm on a transplant list, right?" He nodded, unable to bring himself to speak. "Well, last night, we got a call. They've found a compatible donor. A woman who fell off a horse, and is being kept alive by machines. Her family signed the consent forms yesterday, and they're prepping her for surgery. My dad and I have to leave for Sacramento tonight."
A whirlwind of thoughts danced through his mind. Emma was leaving. But she was getting a lung transplant. She was having a very serious operation. But afterwards she'd be able to breathe normally. His best and only friend was going away. But she wouldn't be gone forever. She couldn't leave forever. It wasn't allowed. It wasn't right.
"I'll be gone for three months," she said, perhaps sensing his rising panic. "After the transplant, I have to spend a month in hospital, so I can be closely monitored for rejection and put on a ventilator. Then I'll need regular weekly checkups for the next month, so that the doctors can adjust my medication if necessary. My dad's renting us a place down there for an extra month, because he doesn't want to take any chances."
He looked into her eyes, saw the hope and the fear and the regret within them. "But afterwards, you'll be healthy. Right?"
"Healthier," she nodded. "I'll need to take low doses of immunosuprressants for the rest of my life, to ensure my body doesn't reject the lungs. I'll need a checkup at the transplant clinic once every six weeks. The drugs I'll need to take mean that my immune system will be lowered, and I'll be more at risk from infections and colds. And there may be… side effects. A lot of people develop diabetes, and high blood pressure, and eventually my kidneys will probably fail." She gave him a brave smile and tapped her oxygen tank with her foot. "But I won't need this anymore. I'll be able to breathe properly. I'll look like normal people."
"You've only ever looked like normal people to me," he assured her.
"Which just goes to show how much of a freak you are," she said, and he smiled with her at her playful insult.
"You really have to go so soon?"
"Yeah. Every moment sorta counts. My dad's at home, running around, trying not to panic as he packs everything he thinks we'll need. He wanted to leave this morning, but I convinced him that we needed time to do things like say goodbye to people, and make sure the shop will be okay, and… you know… tell Principal Hutchins that I'm going to be out of school for a while. He was really cool about it. He said that once I'm out of the hospital, he'll get Mrs. Kavanaugh to email me all the work I've missed, so I don't have to suffer lying around watching daytime TV. And I can start planning out my assignments too, so that I can submit them once I get home, and I won't have to resit the whole year."
"That's good. Good. It means we'll be in the same classes again next year." He felt his hands start to shake, and quickly hid them behind his back before they could betray him.
She nodded. "And when I get back, there's something I'd like you to do for me."
"What's that?"
"Teach me to swim."
"You don't know how to swim?"
She glanced pointedly at the O2 canister. "With this thing attached to me? I've never had chance to try. But when I'm better, it's the first thing I want to learn. My dad tells me that swimming is like floating weightlessly, cushioned by water all around, almost like flying in a dream. I've wanted to swim ever since I was a little girl, and we'd drive to the coast and watch seals playing in the waves."
"Then of course I'll teach you to swim," he promised. "I'm sure you'll be great at it."
"Thank you." She threw her arms around him, pulling him into another hug. When she spoke again, her voice was a whisper. "You'll text me, won't you? And email me?"
"All the time."
"And you'll try not to get into too much trouble whilst I'm not here to bail you out of it?"
"Hey, this is me we're talking about."
"Exactly," she grinned. Then she released him from the hug, leaving his body feeling cold and empty. "I wanna go see your mom before I leave. I think I should tell her myself where I'm going. She's been so good to me. I want to thank her for everything she's done. For making me feel like a normal girl for once in my life."
"Yeah. I'm sure she'll be glad you came to say goodbye."
"Alright. Are you coming?"
"You go ahead," he said, with the best smile he could muster. "I'm just gonna lock up here and I'll meet you at the house."
"Okie dokie," she said, and left the office, wheeling her tank behind her.
As soon as she'd gone, Norman felt his legs give way, and he sank down into one of the chairs. Emma was leaving. He'd taken it for granted that she would always be there, as she always had been, ever since he'd moved to White Pine Bay. And not only was Emma leaving, but Dylan was looking for a place of his own, and Bradley was back with her boyfriend and wanted nothing to do with Norman…
He would have nobody. Nobody except his mother. The one person who had always been there for him, and always would be. The one, single constant in his life. His mother would never leave him. She would never go away. She loved him too much. She would be there forever, to take care of him.
Leaving the office, he locked it up and headed back up to the house, and tried not to think about how lonely he was going to be.
o - o - o - o - o
The house was in darkness, except for the small pool of light in the living room. Clementine was asleep in her bed, her paws quivering slightly as she chased something in her canine dream. Romero took a sip of his chamomile tea, and turned his attention back to the list of numbers lying on the coffee table. Moore and Regina had worked their way through them, but found no Rick, no Richard, and no motive for murder.
Though he was loathe to admit it, Romero knew he'd hit a dead end. But life wasn't like television. Real police work wasn't like CSI. You didn't get a team of super-geniuses to cobble together evidence using high-tech gadgets, and throw out one-liners whilst casually arresting the criminals no more than forty-eight hours after the crime had been committed. The wheels of justice turned more slowly, in real life. Sometimes it took weeks or months for crimes to be solved. Sometimes they never were.
And tomorrow, he was going to have to go to Beverley Watson's funeral, and tell Carmella Hawthorn that he'd made no progress in locating her sister's killer. That thought left a bitter taste in Romero's mouth. He didn't like loose ends, especially when they were capable of killing defenceless women.
On a whim, he stood up and went to the bookshelf, pulling out an old and battered copy of Tolkien's The Lord of the Rings. He turned to page 167, and picked out the photograph held between the pages. Before looking at it, he read the short verse which it had hidden.
All that is gold does not glitter,
Not all those who wander are lost;
The old that is strong does not wither,
Deep roots are not reached by the frost.
From the ashes a fire shall be woken,
A light from the shadows shall spring;
Renewed shall be blade that was broken,
The crownless again shall be king.
The words brought a smile to his lips. Her favourite poem, it had been, even though it wasn't really a poem. Keats and Frost and Wordsworth she could take or leave, but Tolkien's short poems and riddles never failed to make her smile.
Putting the book down, he carried the photograph to the couch and settled down to look at it again. It was the only picture he had left of them. All the others had been burned in their frames, along with their clothes, along with all of the toys. Their pictures, their things, had haunted him, driving him to grief beyond imagination. It was a feeling that had twisted inside him, eating away at his heart, tormenting his mind, and he'd heard the silent accusation whenever he glanced at their still faces.
You should have protected us.
So he'd gathered their pictures, their clothes, the toys, and anything else that had been touched by them. He'd gathered it all and burnt it on a pyre, letting his grief be borne away by the smoke of that fire rising towards the heavens. The book, and the picture of his wife, his childhood sweetheart, holding their infant son in her arms, had been the only things he had kept. Her favourite book now hid and protected this one last piece of evidence that they had ever existed as something more than a beautiful, sad dream.
It had been five years after their deaths before he'd been able to bring himself to open up the book and look at the picture for the first time. Since that day, two or three times a year he would open the book, read the rhyme, and spend hours just gazing at their faces. Matilda's face was timeless, her youthful beauty preserved forever. Similarly, little Daniel would remain a child for eternity. He would never grow up, never learn to write, never fall and graze his knees in the playground, never bring home his first girlfriend, his first child, never see grandchildren, never have to suffer illness and old age. In the picture, the boy just shy of his second birthday was an immortal child.
What would they say, he wondered, if they could see him now? He looked up at his own face, reflected in the glass of the window. It was a face that seemed little changed by the past twenty years, but one that he suspected Matilda would not recognise. Time and grief had burnt away any softness, and the eyes which looked back at him seemed harsh and unforgiving. Would his son, who would now be a young man of twenty-two, flinch away from those eyes? Or would he look at them, and understand that they were the eyes of a man who'd had to do harsh, regrettable things to keep people safe?
"Take care of each other," he said, running his finger briefly over both faces before tucking the photo back into the book, which took its usual place on the shelf. There had been a time, long ago, when he couldn't imagine living without them. Now, he couldn't imagine how different his life would be if they had survived the time when War had visited White Pine Bay.