“You're going to want to be careful for a day or two. Don't do anything too strenuous, or else you might rip the stitches out, in which case you'll be right back here. I don't think any of us want that, do we?”
Detective Knox did not respond to the question. The doctor's words had set off a firestorm in his mind, his thoughts racing faster than he could sort them. He stayed silent, letting the tidal wave of ideas tear down the doubts he had erected, eroding the fuzzy edges of the mystery. Clarity was coming, quickly, flashing before his eyes as he gave in to his subconscious.
The doctor had left without Detective Knox being aware of his absence. He saw only Kat when he lifted his head. She could see something different in him, not the frustration and resignation that had taken hold in the midst of his alcohol-fueled torment. For the first time since he had taken on the case, she could see her husband as she remembered him, his sharp eyes that saw through the masks and makeup that covered reality. He was himself again, and relief came over her when she realized he was not lost to her.
“Kat, I just had an idea.”
“I can tell.”
“I don't even know if it's possible, but I think I might know how George Hobbes was killed.”
“Really? How?”
“I don't think it's a real thing, but I can't jinx it until I know for sure. I need to call Lane.”
Kat picked up her husband's coat, patting down the pockets for his phone. She slipped her hand into the interior pocket, pulling it out with two extended fingers. She held it up, but didn’t hand it over.
“I'll give you your phone, but you have to promise me something.”
“What?”
“That if your idea is right, and you solve this case, you're not going to put yourself through this hell anymore. You know I love you, but I don't know how much longer I can put up with you when you're like this.”
“What, you want me to retire?”
“Of course not. That would kill you. I just want you to promise that you're going to try to let other people help you more, and you're going to realize you don't have to solve every crime that is committed.”
“Fine. I promise. Now can I have my phone, or do I have to go searching for the one pay phone left in the world?”
Kat handed over the phone, and Knox tapped two buttons before putting it to his ear. He listened to the ringing, impatient for Lane to answer him. Detective Knox had no idea of the hour, only that Detective Lane should not have been asleep, because there was a case that needed to be solved, and answers can come at any time. Five rings later, he heard the click of the line, and began talking before Lane could even offer a groggy greeting.
“Kid, I think I know how George Hobbes was killed. We've got a long day ahead of us, so get yourself down to the precinct. I'll meet you there as soon as I can.”
“What's going on? What time is it?”
“That's not important. Just do what I said, and you'll be able to sleep soon enough.”
“Whatever. Just make sure to bring coffee.”
“This time it's on me.”
Chapter 27
An Eternal Fire
The night was crisp, the air cold enough to freeze your lungs if you took too large a breath, the kind of night Detective Knox loved the most. It took a certain constitution to enjoy such nights, a masochistic streak that reveled in making the act of breathing difficult. Standing in that blackness, drawing that air into your lungs, required effort, and a desire to be alive. Life was wasted on the living, he often thought, because they did not understand that life was a precious gift, something that he saw taken each and every day, often without a thought given to the act, more often with no one noticing the absence.
To be alive was not a simple statement of fact, it was a cause to rally around. Whatever lay over the horizon, after this life was over, it was a mystery even Detective Knox did not want to solve. There was only so much time before that end came, little enough that every moment needed to have the happiness squeezed and extracted, to condense the feelings into an elixir strong enough to dull us from the inevitable. Most days, people were more than happy to stare ahead and put one foot in front of the other without considering what was to come, but frigid city nights were different. They required a choice to be made between life and death, between the easy way and the hard. That choice was why Detective Knox preferred the dark, gloomy season.
The painkillers in his system were wearing off, but he still felt nothing. Adrenaline was pumping, coursing a fiery energy through his body. For a moment, he felt like his younger self, before his body had begun its slow slide into the waiting grasp of gravity. Youth was not something he felt anxious to recover, but the feeling stirred in him memories of the past. He was a different man back then, but not a better one. What the physical had taken from him, the mental had given. There were advantages to being a broken-down wreck, not the least of which was being thrown aside and ignored, when the filter between mind and mouth had grown too thin to contain the ugly thoughts that filled the mind.
In the distance, between the squared-off foliage of glass and iron, the sun peered above the horizon. Why it would choose to rise day after day, given the horrors it would shed light upon, was a puzzle to Detective Knox. It was impossible to wash away sins when the blood stained bright red, rather than the eerily beautiful shade of black illuminated by the moon. It seemed to him that the sun was a tormenter, reminding people of the difficulties that lay ahead. Hell was said to be an eternal fire, which, to Detective Knox, was no different than the sun. Perhaps, he considered, everyone had been looking in the wrong direction all along.
He climbed the steps in twos, waiting for the clock to strike, and his body to turn back into a pumpkin. He reached the top without crumbling, without his joints leaking a critical amount of whatever hydraulic was needed to lubricate the gears. The interior struck him in the face, burning like a bird having fallen into a furnace vent. Warmth was connected with positivity, but Detective Knox could not see the sense in massaging away the aches and pains while hunting for the truth. Discomfort built focus, and the precinct was too tempting a retreat for the force to venture out into the city to do their jobs properly.
Out of the corner of his eye, Detective Knox could see Lane waiting for him, his head slumped on his shoulders like an anchor slowly pulling a body down to the depths of the sea. Two cups of coffee sat on the desk in front of him, steaming away, but failing to inject life into Lane's tired body. Knox slapped his hand atop the desk, rousing Lane from his sleep. His head jerked up, his eyes blinking to adjust to the light. They focused on Detective Knox, who had grabbed the other cup of coffee, and was pressing it to his lips.
“What did you get me up at the crack of dawn for?”
“I might have solved the case.”
“That's nice, but couldn't it have waited for morning?”
“The truth waits for no man, kid.”
“Are you on drugs?”
“A few, yes. But that's not important. What matters is that when that phone rings, Dr. Morse is going to tell me if I'm right. If I am, which I think I am, people will be calling us heroes by the end of the day.”
“Heroes?”
“I know it's garbage, but they're going to, and I'm not going to stop them, if it makes them feel better.”
“I thought you hated attention.”
“I do, but I also like the idea of getting this monkey off our backs.”
“Point taken.”
The phone rang, and Lane picked it up, knowing his partner would not want to. He pressed a button, turning on the speaker, letting himself in on the conversation.
“Doc, do you have some news for me?”
“I think I do. I got your message.”