‘It doesn’t matter. I want you. I trust you.’
‘Okay,’ he said softly. ‘We can drive up tomorrow and have a look.’
‘That’s great.’
‘But,’ Leighton held out his hand to quell her delight, ‘we take my car and split the gas, and if we find nothing suspicious, you can still buy me lunch, otherwise I’m buying lunch for you, and a little slice of humble pie for me.’
‘I knew you were a good man, Detective Jones.’ Vicki grinned.
‘Or a damn fool.’ Leighton chuckled wryly. ‘And it’s Mr. Jones from now on, Miss. I handed in my badge last Friday, remember?’
‘Well, as long as you still have your gun,’ Vicki said softly, and got up to leave.
Leighton hoped she was joking, but suspected she wasn’t.
After the girl had left, Leighton came in from the patio, and padded through the house to the kitchen. He placed his glass and paperback book beside the empty sink, then pinched the bridge of his nose. For a few moments, he stared at the floor, then slowly turned around, reached down, and opened one of the kitchen drawers. His hand reached tentatively into the back of the drawer, and pulled out a faded polaroid photograph of a seven-year-old girl, affectionately holding a fluffy toy bird. The girl was grinning at the camera, with an expression of delight. Leighton gently stroked the image with his thumb, and peered desperately at the image, as if that small window to the past might somehow open. The tears came quickly, pouring down his cheeks, and dripping on to the black tiled floor. Leighton knew from experience he could not hold back the tide. Eventually, he allowed his legs to bend, lowering himself on to the floor. Holding the picture in one hand, and covering his ashamed face with the other, he wept for hours.
8
Anthony Morrelli had closed his eyes as the throaty groan of the engine provided a deep purring lullaby. His eyes were fluttering slightly, as they scanned some imaginary landscape. He was dreaming of his childhood, when his father had taken him fishing for sunfish in the Colorado River out by Davis Dam. It was an activity they had repeated over several summers in Anthony’s youth.
Dragging a flaking old boat, with a croaky outboard motor, out on to the steel-coloured river, they would sail west, until they had found a peaceful place to stop. After dropping a couple of dough-bated lines over the side, his dad would open a can of root beer for his son and a bottle of Peroni for himself. Then, there was little more than the two of them sitting back in comfortable silence, the stillness broken only by the sound of an occasional fish breaking the surface of the water.
Although he had never analysed it, Morrelli’s decision to take up a job on the water four years after his father’s death was, in some way, his attempt to reconnect with those lost summers when the warm air blew softly across the gently rocking boat.
Now, seventeen years later, the air was similarly warm, though this time, it was artificially so - drawn in from the cool night, warmed by the heater matrix, and blown through the dark interior of the bus. It swept gently over Anthony Morrelli’s cheek, almost as if some soft hand was stroking his face. In his dream, the water was slate-coloured, deep, and mirror still. There was a line trailing out from their boat into infinity. His father was sitting back, silently sucking calmly on one of the ten thousand cigarettes that would eventually kill him - coffin nails, he had called them, and they had been. Morrelli always said his old fella’s casket should have borne the Marlboro logo.
In the dream, the younger version of himself held on to the fishing line as it grew suddenly taught. He called out to his father in the muted words of dreams, but the man just nodded silently at his son, giving him license to reel in the catch. With the syrupy motion of fantasy, he had reeled in the line, until he saw the vague shape rising up from the depth. Even though undefined in shape, he could tell it was a big one. A smile of pride and pleasure spread across his face; this was no sunfish, more likely a massive pike minnow.
He dragged the resistant beast closer to the surface, and with a final burst of energy, he yanked the creature out of the water and into the boat. But, it wasn’t a fish, or even a river crab; it was a massive white spider, with panicky, spindly legs, that skittered against each other, as it pulled crazily at the fishing line tangled around its long fangs. Even in the dream, the rocking motion of the boat seemed terrifyingly real.
The horror of the object pushed Anthony Morrelli up from the slumber of sleep. Although not fully awake, some signals were coming through his dream, merging reality. Despite slipping free of the dream’s illusion, the sensation of the wind on his face remained. He opened his bleary eyes to discover someone was stroking his face.
He turned his head to see a small elderly man sitting next to him, touching his cheek. At first, he was confused.
‘You have such beautiful skin,’ the old man smiled.
‘What?’
‘Just lovely, golden almost.’
‘Old man, if you touch me again,’ Anthony said, in a low deep voice, ‘I’ll break your fucking jaw.’
‘So very soft,’ the old man continued, almost dreamily himself. He then reached inside his jacket pocket and produced a gleaming hip-flask.
Now, Anthony was suddenly interested, and his scowling expression evolved into something much more amiable. Whatever perversion the old guy subscribed to could be overlooked, for the sake of a free drink.
The small man unscrewed the lid of the flask in a methodical manner, then politely offered it to Anthony. ‘Would you like a drink?’
For an unusually perceptive moment, Anthony paused. What if the old pervert had spiked it? He glanced around, and realised the bus was almost full of commuters. If the weirdo was dumb enough to try anything, there was an entire bus of upstanding citizens ready to step in. So, Anthony threw caution to the wind.
‘What is it?’ he asked.
‘Wild Turkey,’ the old man smiled, and his eyes twinkled.
As the bus hurtled onwards, Anthony grinned, and took the flask from the old man’s hand. Tipping the container back, he swallowed three deep gulps of the sweet bourbon, and returned it.
‘With a dash of strychnine,’ the old man added softly.
‘What did you say?’
The old man did not respond. He was too busy reaching across the aisle to access a black Gladstone bag from the opposite seat. When he turned back, he was holding a coil of semi-transparent rubber tubing and an oversized syringe. Anthony, however, was not distressed at the sight of the old taxidermist preparing his tools; he was too busy convulsing and thrashing around in his seat, like someone possessed.
In the cool glow of the blue lights, the old man whistled as he worked. Occasionally, he would call on his fellow passengers to assist by restraining Anthony in his final futile moments, to hold the camera, or to help strip the body. Others would assist by unpacking the plastic sheeting and the large, glass mason jars from the over-head locker.
9
In terms of April weather, the drive up to Barstow was a pleasant one. The sun was warm in the beautiful Californian sky, and the morning haze had burned off to leave the air clear and clean. Leighton had collected Vicki from her beach house – arriving ten minutes early. This was a side of the city homicide cops rarely visited, and, consequently, he had taken almost half an hour to find Vicki’s home in the exclusive beach house complex. Then - afraid of hurrying her too much - he rolled down his window, and sat in the car listening to some Woody Guthrie, until she appeared at the side of his door. She was wearing a faded University of San Diego t-shirt, and had black bandolier bag draped over one shoulder.