The Lovers

I had not been back at Hobart Street for years, not since I had removed the last of my family’s possessions from the house, sorting them into those that I would keep, and those I would discard. I think that it was one of the hardest tasks I have ever performed, that service for the dead. With each item that I put aside-a dress, a hat, a doll, a toy-it seemed that I was betraying their memory. I should have kept it all, for these were things that they had touched and held, and something of them resided in these familiar objects, now rendered strange by loss. It took me three days. Even now, I can recall sitting for an hour on the edge of our bed with Susan’s hairbrush in my hand, stroking the hairs that had tangled on its bristles. Was this too to be discarded, or should I keep it along with the lipstick that had molded itself to the shape of her, the blusher that retained the imprint of her finger upon it, the unwashed wineglas R Ahed winegs marked by her hands and her mouth? What was to be kept, and what was to be forgotten? In the end, perhaps I kept too much; that, or not enough. Too much to truly let go, and too little to lose myself entirely in their memory.

“You okay?” asked Santos as we stood at the gate.

“No,” I said. I saw TV cameras, and flashes exploded in my eyes, leaving red spots in their wake. I saw patrol cars, and men in uniform. And I was back in another time, my knee bruised and my trousers torn, my head in my hands and the image of the dead frozen on my retina.

“You want a minute?”

More flashbulbs, closer now. I heard my name being called, but I did not react.

“No,” I said again, and I followed Santos to the back of the house.

It was the blood that did it. Blood on the kitchen floor, and blood on the walls. I could not enter the kitchen. Instead, I gazed upon it from outside until I felt my stomach begin to churn and sweat broke out on my face. I leaned against the cool woodwork of the house and closed my eyes until the nausea passed.

“Did you see it?” asked Santos.

“Yes,” I said.

The symbol had been drawn in Wallace’s blood. His body had already been removed, but the position in which he was found had been marked. The symbol had been created just above where Wallace’s head had rested. Nearby, the contents of a plastic folder had been scattered across the floor. I saw the photographs, and knew why Wallace had been here. He wanted to relive the killings, and their discovery.

“Do you know what that symbol means?” asked Santos.

“I’ve never seen it before.”

“Me neither, but I’m guessing that whoever did this signed his handiwork. We’ve searched the rest of the house. It’s clean. Looks like it all happened in the kitchen.”

I turned to look at him. He was young. He probably didn’t even understand the import of his own words. And yet I could not forgive him his crassness.

“We’re finished here,” I said.

I walked away from him, and straight into another barrage of flashes, of camera lights and shouted questions. I froze for a moment as I realized that I had no way of leaving this place. I had come with Santos. I had no car of my own. I saw someone standing under a tree, a familiar figure: a big, tall man with short silver hair shorn in a military cut. In my confusion, it took me a moment to place him.

Tyrrell.

Tyrrell was here, a man who, even after I left the force, had made it clear to me that he believed I should be behind bars. Now he was striding toward me, outside the place where Mickey Wallace had been killed. Wallace had hinted that some people had been willing to talk to him, and I knew then that Tyrrell had been one of them. Some of the reporters saw him coming, and one of them, a guy named McGarry who’d been on the police beat for so long that his skin had a blue tinge, called Tyrrell’s name. It was R Aname. It clear from the way the older man was moving that some kind of confrontation was about to occur, and it would take place in the glare of cameras and the red lights of handheld recording devices. That was how Tyrrell would want it.

“You sonofabitch,” he shouted. “This is your fault.”

More flashes now, and the bright, steady light of a TV camera shining upon Tyrrell. He’d been drinking, but he was not intoxicated. I prepared to face him, and then a hand gripped my arm, and Jimmy Gallagher’s voice said, “Come on. Let’s get you out of here.” Exhausted though he was, he had followed me here, and I was grateful to him for it. I saw the frustration in Tyrrell’s face as he watched his quarry escape, denied his moment in front of the media, and then the more together reporters were turning to him for a comment, and he began to spill his bile.

Santos watched Parker depart, and saw Tyrrell begin talking to the reporters. Santos didn’t know why Tyrrell was blaming Parker for what had happened, but he knew now that there was bad blood between the two men. He would talk to Tyrrell, in time. He turned away, and watched a man in a nicely cut dark suit who had slipped past the cordon and seemed to be staring intently at the receding lights of Jimmy Gallagher’s car. Santos moved toward him.

“Sir, you have to step back behind the line.”

The man flipped the wallet in his palm to reveal a badge and a Maine State Police ID, but he didn’t look at Santos, who felt his hackles rise as a consequence.

“Detective Hansen,” said Santos. “Can I help you with something?”

Only when the car had turned onto Marine Avenue and was gone from sight did Hansen turn to Santos. His eyes, like his hair and his suit, were very dark.

“I don’t think so,” he said, and walked away.

That night, I slept in Jimmy Gallagher’s house, in a clean bed in an otherwise unfurnished room, and in my dreams I saw a dark figure bent over Mickey Wallace, whispering and cutting, in the house on Hobart Street, and behind them, as in one film playing over another, each depicting the same setting from a similar angle but at different moments in time, I saw another man hunched over my wife, speaking softly to her as he cut her, the body of my dead child on the floor nearby waiting to be violated in turn. And then they were gone and there was only Wallace in the darkness, the blood bubbling from the wound in his throat, his body trembling. He was dying alone and afraid, in a strange place…

A woman appeared in the doorway of the kitchen. She wore a summer dress, and a little girl stood beside her, gripping the thin material of her mother’s dress with her right hand. They walked to where Wallace lay, and the woman knelt beside him and stroked his face, and the child took his hand, and together they calmed him until his eyes closed and he left this world forever.

CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX

THE GIRL’S BODY HAD been wrapped in plastic sheeting, then weighted with a rock and dumped in a pond. It was discove SIt Ä[1]‡red when a cow slipped into the water and one of its legs became tangled on the rope securing the plastic. As the cow, a Horned Hereford of no small value, was hauled from the pond, the body came with it.

Almost as soon as it was found, the locals in the small southern Idaho town of Goose Creek knew who it was. Her name was Melody McReady, and she had disappeared two years earlier. Her boyfriend, Wade Pearce, had been questioned in co