Author's note: I am so sorry for this lengthy delay. Lost the original copy (somehow it was deleted) and had to work the story from scratch. Plus with other things... I'll try to make it once a week. And here you guys go.
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I hate documents.
I try to skim through them, but it usually feels more like reading a Tolstoy gone wrong. Too many words, characters and theories and suggestions that may or may not be useful, but you don't want to miss them because they might just be the pivotal matter whereupon everything (pardon the pun) lies.
I closed my eyes and the handwritings of a pathologist some five years ago floated before me. It said everything: the wounds found on the body, things found around the body that corresponded to bruises and wounds on the body, and finally, the cause of death. Death by suicide, the pathologist had written down.
I grabbed my whisky glass and tipped it to my mouth, then realising that it was already empty. I groaned, stood up, and went across the room to the glass display, where my blood supplies were. Poured another glassful, and went back to the new study table. It was full of papers. Courtesy of Sinclair, of course.
He had been working overtime to Xerox the documents that may or may not be connected to Aaron Duvall's suicide. I got here an autopsy report, burial inventories, personal effects, papers, papers and more papers. I sat down, sipped the blood, and grabbed a report at random. It was the toxicology report. Nothing much in here, and I reckon there were nothing useful.
I grabbed another report. This time it was Aaron's background. It was probably compiled by the defence lawyer for preparation in court. Some of the details were already known to me, like that he started school at 9 and he won the title for his school at 19. There were, however, a few other new facts. Here it said that Aaron was born to Tyler and Michelle Duvall. The husband had some trouble with his tubes, and was unable to fertilise his wife's eggs. Aaron was born after his parents went to the local fertility clinic.
When little Aaron was only ten months old, Tyler walked out of the family and was never heard of again. Two weeks later, Michelle Duvall was found hanging in the family garage. The neighbour found her after they heard the baby's cries went unattended and of course it made them curious, as Michelle never would have ignored him. He was in his walker when the neighbour found him and his mother, who according to the report might have died somewhere three hours before.
From then the defence merely focused on the fact that although Aaron had been changing families like changing his socks, it was never him who initiated the removal. He might have tried his best to fit himself within the families, but I bet there was always a flaw somewhere waiting to pop out, like maybe his looks.
He had looks that could charm the socks off a nun, no matter how young he was, and that could be a problem with his families. Maybe some of the children in the adopted home could have gotten too close to be called appropriate by his adopted parents. That could have caused him to be continually on the transfer list. Looking at this list in my hand, the list was as long as Josef's houses. On the East coast.
The names in the list were neither familiar nor conspicuous. It doesn't matter; I'd have it in my pocket just in case. Meanwhile, the autopsy report was of interest. It stated here that Aaron Duvall died from exsanguinations. There were wounds found on his wrists, neck, and at the back of both knees. He was found in a rather unique position, as described in the report:
Body was found face-down on the floor. The neck had been suspended by a blanket tied to the bars of the window, but as the body goes through rigor mortis, it fell down. Bruises on the neck correspond exactly to the knot. Wounds are on the neck, wrists, and the back of his knees. Judging from the amount of blood found in the scene, it is sufficient to conclude that subject died from extreme blood loss from the wounds found on the body, and not from airway suffocation.
Blood loss. Something nobody would have wanted, mortal or otherwise. What a terrible way to go. I tossed the report rather carelessly.
A rather tall pile of papers fell away from the table and onto the floor. Groaning, I walked around and gathered them. Under the dim light, I saw something among the papers that resembled the beginnings of a letter. It was a Xerox of an original a formal letter, to be exact. It was written in a rough draft, with lines crossing over some sentences and notes at the margin. I brought it closer to my eyes for inspection.
APPLICATION FOR DISTANCE LEARNING
When I saw the date on the letter, my old friend, Doubt, entered my head without further ado.
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"Tell me something, Josef."
Josef raised his brows as he put down the phone.
"I found an interesting letter. It has to do with the case I'm working on now."
"Ms Watts' case?" I nodded.
We were in Josef's office. It was 3.15 in the morning, and his office was empty. Josef had just had a nice late supper in the form of a slight Asian. She was one of his favourites, and he made sure the woman was escorted back to her apartment. The limo driver had just called to confirm that.
"What of it? I thought your mole in the system can provide you with a lot of papers." He meant Sinclair.
"Sinclair is not a mole and he provides me with something that neither of us can lay our hands upon," I said, perhaps a bit too harsh. "Be kind to him."
"You know Mick," Josef rose, "some of these days, you will get hurt by this kind of sentiment you still have in you. It's like raising a pet dog: you know their lifespan is lower than yours, but you still insist that they are useful and keep you company. What happens to you when they wilt and die? Or worse, killed by some criminal?"
Josef, for all of his unscrupulousness, knows by experience that that statement is correct. It cuts me, inside where I can still feel that little scrap of humanity, it really cuts me and hurts me. Who am I to say that he is wrong? But there you go. I guess my weakness is neither sunlight nor a stake through my heart. It's my sentimental attachment to everything that is human, thus to a mortal.
I shook my head in reply. Josef grunted, shook his head too. "You're a hopeless case," he went on. "When you bother to save a mortal's life, that's when the rules are overturned. We either prey on them or milk them like cattle. Now you come along and make it your mission to try and save as much mortals as you can."
"Like I said," I quickly said, in order to stave off further reprimands that I did not need at 3 in the morning, "I found a very interesting letter amongst the documents Sinclair helped me to gather."
Josef grunted again. "Not a very suave effort to change the subject, but do humour me."
"First of all, I must tell you that Ms Cynthia Watts is looking for someone who is already dead."
This time his brows rose, but now in true surprise. "Well, you got me humoured. Go on."
"Second, he died in 1990. I have his death certificate, prison log that confirms the fact, and some burial inventories and personal effects."
Josef eyed me as if I had missed something obvious. "Well, what are you waiting for?"
"Waiting for what?"
"Aren't you going to tell your client about this?"
"Should I do it face to face?"
"Yeah, that's the way to go, missionary style." I groaned in disgust. "Well, how else are you going to tell her, smoke signals?"
"But this letter." I took it out of my jacket pocket and gave it to him. Josef unfolded it and read it slowly. "Look at the date."
"I am looking. Is it going to change into something else?"
"Dammit, Josef, the date was July 8 1990. Aaron Duvall died two days later."
"So?"
"He applied for distance learning programme, and two days later he committed suicide?"
"Maybe he got a negative reply from the programme."
I threw at him another letter. Josef's face immediately changed as he read it. "That's – weird, then."
I nodded, satisfied. "Do you kill yourself after knowing that you were accepted?"
"Not in a million years," Josef sighed. "Though I would have if it's a community college..."
This time I threw at him the paperweight.
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"Anyhow," I began a few minutes later, after we had ended our horseplay, "should I tell Cynthia about this?"
"Which part?" Josef asked. "The part where her ex-boyfriend's dead or the part where you think something is wrong with the whole picture?"
"Both." I shrugged. "Maybe I should start with the death."
"Yeah, that should make her feel very close to you. Are you going to pour in some sympathy? Saying that you know how she feels, those kinds of words?"
I gave him a black stare. "You're a dick, you know that?"
"Right back at you," he replied.
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Before I turned in that morning I left a message in Cynthia's voicemail. I asked her to meet me later that evening as I had some 'unpredictable turn of events to relate to.' I fell asleep as soon as the lid closed.
Tonight, somehow my dreams were filled with images from the fire – the fire that should have killed Coraline. But in my dreams she did not die. She simply shrugged the fire like it was a negligee made out of silk, strode toward the kid, and slashed her little neck. Arterial blood spurted from the little figure like a leaping fountain, painting my sight red. I screamed and caught the trembling figure as it fell down. Coraline stood before us, smiling down like a blind Madonna, blind to the misery that she had just inflicted.
"Now," her voice said, so far away, so gentle, yet still incisive to my dream nerves, "make her live again, Mick. Make her yours, mine – ours. Finally, we can have a family."
I heard the rattle of the girl's last breaths, and there was no sound more unnerving, more disconcerting than that little sound coming from such a fragile, small body. I could leave the girl to die and drive Coraline to hell with all my fighting and biting and eventually burning, but this girl – I had promised her mother to return her alive.
Would her mother notice the difference? Would her mother realise that the little girl will remain the little girl forever? Would she put the blame on me when I failed to get her back as promised?
I found myself drawn to the spot where the blood was now oozing out slowly, and my fangs touching her tender skin there, puncturing holes, feeling her whole body went rigid and her hands grab my head with a strength no little girls should have.
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I woke up as Coraline's laughter died within my dream. I rarely wake up screaming nowadays – it sort of became a part of my sleep. I am so used to it now; the only side effect of such dream variations of the theme is that I would be very tired. Today, though, I was extra tired because of that dream. I looked around for the wall clock. Cynthia should be coming in an hour's time. I grabbed a towel, tied it around my waist, and entered the shower, trying to forget the dream that I just had.
Although I said that it had become part of my subconscious diurnal meanderings, it does not mean that it becomes easier with each replay. Warm water might help ease that twanging nerves on my back.
The water turned too hot, though, and I knew it was time to step away from under the showerhead and get dressed. I chose a black tunic with lace-up front and a very relaxed pair of pants. I just want to stay home tonight and think the night away. And there was also the thing about Cynthia.
She arrived a few minutes after, and I ushered her inside. Cynthia looked rather excited, which was not easy on me. I was about to give her the worst possible news.
"So, what's the development?" she asked.
I sat down and tried to look as calm as possible. Then I dropped the bomb.
"Cynthia, Aaron Duvall died in prison five years ago, in July. He was imprisoned after he was tried. I'm sure you still remember about that."
Cynthia's eyes narrowed. She slowly shook her head. "I remember that trial. Aaron was tried because he hurt a kid too badly. He did go to prison for that. But – he – he can't have died." She shook her head again, indignantly this time. "He's not dead. He – is – not – dead."
Her knuckles were white on the armrest of the wheelchair. I moved forward, trying to comfort her, but the hands flew up to me like white talons, stopping me dead.
"He – is not – dead – Mr St John! You must be mistaken!"
I held out my hands in surrender. "I know this news is hard for you –" I began, but I was cut off.
"NO! Aaron is not dead! I saw him a week ago at the local park, and again yesterday!" Cynthia stared right through me, as if I had become an intruder in my own home. "It seems I have wasted my time and money on your services, Mr St John! That's it, then. I no longer require your services. Do not worry about your payment, though. I shall not attempt to force you reimburse them." With that she left.
There went my plan to spend the night in peace.
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To be continued...
