by Amy Cross
I slip my key into the lock as quietly as possible.
Once I'm inside, I set the briefcase down quietly and remove my coat. The house seems so still and quiet, yet at the same time it's full of potential: potential for noise, and for joy, and for happiness. I can never understand how anyone could live alone, when surely the whole point of life is that one must live with other people and share their lives? All that really matters in the world is family. With a heavy heart but a faint smile on my lips, I loosen my shirt collar while heading upstairs. It feels good to be here. I've missed this place, and I need to relax for a few days.
"John?" a weary voice calls out from one of the bedrooms. "Is that you?"
As soon as I get to the door, I push it open and see Barbara sitting up in bed, rubbing her eyes.
"Hey honey," I say, keeping my voice down so that the kids don't hear. "I'm home."
"I thought you weren't due back until next week," she says. "Is everything okay?"
"Everything's absolutely fine," I reply, my heart gladdened by the sight of her beautiful eyes. Stepping over to the bed, I lean down and kiss the side of her face. "I just shuffled a few appointments around and realized I had a small window to come back home."
"You should have called ahead," she replies. "I'd have made breakfast."
"No need," I say, sitting on the side of the bed. "You look as beautiful as ever, my darling. Have the children been behaving?"
"Just about," she says with a smile, "although Claire's been something of a little madam. I guess she's just been missing you, like the rest of us, and her back's been giving her a little trouble. I was thinking of taking her to get the screws checked."
"Well," I reply, kissing the end of her nose, "I'm home now, and that's what matters. I'm sorry, Barbara, but I think I might have to get some rest. I drove through the night, which probably wasn't entirely wise, and I just need to crash out. Do you think it might be possible to keep Claire from disturbing me until at least lunchtime?"
"Of course," she says, kissing my cheek again. "I'm so pleased you managed to surprise us, John. I hope you're not neglecting your work."
"Never," I reply with a smile.
"I guess this is what I get for marrying such a romantic guy, huh?" she replies, slipping out of bed and grabbing her dressing gown. "Go on, in you get. I'll sort everything out."
Once she's left the room, I start to undress. Sharon's death is still playing on my mind, but at least I can take comfort here with Barbara and Claire. I suppose most men would be cut up and distraught by the events of the past day, but I think I'm starting to cope quite well, despite the tears I cried earlier. I did the right thing by Sharon and the other children, and I must simply work hard to ensure that the same fate doesn't befall Barbara and Claire. My life would be so much easier if I didn't complicate it with all these entanglements, but I have no choice.
At heart, I guess I'm just a family man.
Epilogue
She stays right where she is, not daring to move. Even breathing seems like a terrible risk, so she restricts herself to shallow intakes of air, trying to keep her chest completely still. She has to blink, of course, but she only allows herself this luxury once every thirty seconds. Other than these few small indiscretions, she stays completely motionless, terrified to move a muscle.
But still the visitor comes.
Every hour or so, the door opens and a woman enters the room. She has a kind face and she's wearing some kind of neat, clean gray tunic. She tries to talk to the girl, to get her to respond, but she uses words that the girl doesn't understand. At first, the girl was scared that the woman was going to hurt her, but now she's convinced that it's a trap. The man must have sent the woman to trick her into moving when she hasn't been given permission, but the girl is too smart to fall for such a ruse.
So she ignores the woman completely.
Eventually, the woman leaves, although the girl knows she'll be back eventually. For now, though, the girl simply focuses on remaining still and hoping that - if he's watching - the man will be able to see that she's being obedient. As far as the girl is concerned, the only thing that matters is that she's able to please the man, because she knows from first-hand experience that his anger can be terrifying. She's felt his kicks and punches in the past, and she's witnessed the way he treated some of the others back in the barn. More than anything in the whole world, the girl just wants to avoid pain.
He's in her mind, though.
Whenever she allows her thoughts to wander, she can see his image, coming closer and closer. She doesn't entirely understand what's happening, and although she wants to be certain that the image is just part of her dreams, she can't entirely dismiss the possibility that in some way he might really be watching her, waiting for her to make a mistake so that he can strike. She can see the look in his eyes; he's ready to punish her, to beat her down again, to make her pay for daring to run away.
After what feels like an eternity, the girl can handle the strain no longer. Looking up at the ceiling of the little white room, she feels tears pour down her face as the broken bones in her back click together. Finally, she opens her mouth and lets out a wild, animalistic wail of misery.
Part Three
Burned
Prologue
22 years ago
He picks his way through the darkened building, keeping one hand in his jacket pocket so that he can pull out the gun if it's needed. This isn't his usual territory, but he bent the rules tonight because he desperately needs to make another purchase. There are risks involved, but he's thought them through and decided that he's willing to let his pulse quick just a little: he wants to get the hell out of this place, but first he needs to conclude the deal.
"It's me!" he calls out, his voice echoing across the vast, open shell of the old cannery. Checking his watch, he sees that it's precisely 9pm, which means she should be here by now. He hates it when people are late, but he knows he shouldn't expect too much from this woman; when he spoke to her a couple of weeks ago, she seemed to be high on some kind of drug and barely able to form whole sentences.
Just another piece of human trash.
"Are you here?" he shouts.
No reply.
"Bitch," he mutters, before turning to walk away.
"Wait!" she calls out, her voice sounding half-frozen.
Stopping, he looks back and sees a small figure shuffling out of the shadows, carrying a bundle of rags in her arms. She makes her way hesitantly across the broken glass that litters the floor, but finally she gets close enough for him to see her tired, pained face and her large, heavily ringed eyes. Whatever drug she's on, it seems to have aged her terribly. She could be any age from late teens to early fifties.
"I thought you weren't coming," he says firmly.
"I just..." She pauses. "You know, I wasn't sure..."
"I'm not here for a conversation," he replies, reaching into his pocket and taking out first the gun, then the envelope of money. "I assume you're still going to go through with this," he continues, eying the suspiciously motionless bundle in her arms. "Please, tell me you're not going to waste my time."
She nods.
"One thousand dollars," he continues, holding the envelope up for her to see. He's practiced this moment so many times in front of the bathroom mirror, testing out different ways to make himself seem imposing. "That's a lot of money, isn't it? A thousand dollars could buy you a whole lot of stuff. Hell, it could get you a new start in life. Move away, see if you can get yourself back on track." He pauses, and as he stares at the woman's terrified face, he realizes that the thousand dollars won't be spent on anything meaningful; she'll just blow it on drugs, and then she'll be right back where she started. "So is that it?" he adds, looking at the bundle.
"His name's Tommy," she replies, her voice faltering a little.
"Did you bring his papers?"
She nods.
"And you're alone?"
She nods again.
"Then give him to me. Quick."
She pauses, before stepping forward and passing the child to him and then snatching the envelope of cash. There's something hesitant and alert about her, almost as if she's a wild animal.
"Is he healthy?" the man asks, looking down at the child's sleeping face.
"He's fine," the woman replies as her trembling fingers open the envelope to check the cash. "It's all in his papers. They're in there, in his blanket, just like you wanted."
"That's fine," he says calmly.
"What are you gonna do with him?" she asks. "I mean, are you gonna raise him? Like, are you and your wife gonna raise him as your own or something like that?"
He nods, even though it's a lie.
"You promise?"
"Apple pie, picket fences and all the trimmings," he tells her.
"And he'll have a good life, right? I mean, I'm only giving him away because I want him to have a future. If he stays with me, he's just gonna end up..." Her voice trails off. "Well, you know..."
"You don't want him to end up like you," the man says after a moment.
"No."
"Of course he won't," he says darkly. "He'll be fine."
"Just look after him, yeah? Make sure he has a good life."
"Go on," he replies. "Get out of here. You've got your money, so what are you waiting for? There's no need to stand around and pretend that you care. We both know you just want to get off and buy more drugs."
"That's not fair!" she says.
"Then give me the money back," he suggests. "If this is really about giving little Tommy a better life, then why are you selling him to the highest bidder? You don't know a damn thing about me. For all you know, I could be a goddamn monster."
"You look kind," she replies cautiously.
He smiles. "You don't strike me as someone who has a history of good judgment."
"Please..." she whispers.
"You're an idiot," he continues, "but at least your son will never have to grow up and come face to face with the complete mess that his mother has become. Don't worry; even if he asks, I'll never tell him anything about you. As far as he's concerned, you'll just be an idea, a concept... I'll give him a real home, and a real mother. He won't even miss you. Hell, he won't even know you existed."
The woman opens her mouth to say something, but finally she just turns and starts hurrying away.
"Bitch'll be dead in a few months anyway," the man mutters, before looking down at the child. "Sorry, kid, but you were born to a woman who's in no way equipped to be a mother. If you'd stayed with her, you'd have ended up freezing to death or starving. At least with me..." He pauses. "Well, you won't starve, and you'll have a roof over your head. And then one day, in many years' time, you'll make me a whole heap of money. Until then, you won't have too much of a hard time."
With that, he turns and carries the child toward the exit. He's got what he came for, and he has no intention of hanging around any longer in such a rough neighborhood. Besides, he doesn't really care about the child or its mother; all he cares about is the fact that one day, not soon but one day far off in the future, he'll be able to sell the child's identity for a hell of a lot more than the thousand dollars he paid out today. To him, the child is just another asset to be broken, reshaped and then eventually sold.
As they reach the car parked outside the deserted cannery, little Tommy Symonds finally starts to cry.
Katherine Shaw
Today
"Hey," says Mezki with a shocked look on his face, "I thought you were off sick?"
"I am," I reply, barely even stopping to smile as I hurry into the office. "I just came in to use the facilities." Pulling Dawson's empty chair out from the desk in the corner, I take a seat and start typing a password into the computer. I was hoping there'd be no-one around this morning, but if someone has to be here, Mezki's one of my more tolerable colleagues. The guy might as well have 'harmless' tattooed on his forehead.
"Does your log-in still work while you're sick?" he asks, coming over to stand next to the desk. "I thought -"
"It's not my log-in," I reply, just as an error message comes up on the screen. Figuring I must have mis-typed Dawson's password, I try again, but the same error message appears.
"Huh," I mutter, staring at the screen.
"Told you," Mezki replies with a self-satisfied smile. "When an officer is off sick for more than three days, his or her log-in credentials are restricted until -"
"I know," I mutter, trying for a third time, and once again striking out. "Like I said," I continue, "this isn't my log-in. Dawson must have changed his password."
"Why would he do that?" Mezki asks.
"God knows," I reply. "He knows I use it sometimes, so why the hell..." I pause as, suddenly, it all starts to make sense. "That slippery bastard," I continue, genuinely shocked that he'd make such a passive aggressive move. "He knew full well that I'd come in and try to get onto the system," I continue, thinking out loud, "so he changed his password purely to piss me off."
"Or to comply with the rules," Mezki points out.
"I need your password," I reply, turning to him.
He raises an eyebrow.
"Come on," I continue, "I just need to check up a few details about two cases. I'm looking for something, and I can't wait until I'm back on duty. This is actual police work here, okay?"
"There's no way in hell I'm giving you my password again," he replies firmly. "Not after last time. Do you realize how embarrassing it was when I was called into Schumacher's office and asked to explain all the porn that my account had accessed?"
"You're such a prude," I reply with a smile. "The stuff I was looking at would be perfectly acceptable in a country like Sweden or France." I wait for him to capitulate, but he seems to have learned from his past mistakes. "Fine," I mutter. "If Dawson changed his password, it'll still be something pretty obvious." I type the name Elaine into the password field, but all I get is an error message; next, I try Juha, which is the name of his dog, but I strike out again; just for a laugh, I try a few variations of my own name, but of course nothing works. Sitting back, I stare at the screen, trying to work out what the hell he could have chosen. Although Mike Dawson is a smart guy, he's also totally the kind of person who'd write his password down on a note next to his keyboard; glancing around the desk, I spot various files and print-outs, but nothing that screams 'password'.
"What's so important, anyway?" Mezki asks. "Are you coming back to work soon?"
"Sure," I mutter, focused on the urgent need to crack Dawson's password. Finally, realizing that I need to get out of here before Schumacher sees me, I try to work out what a guy like Dawson would opt for if he was in a hell of a hurry. He'd pick a complex password, something that he hoped no-one else would guess, but it'd have to be something easy to remember. Finally, I try the pin-code for his ATM, then the pin-code for his mobile phone and the code for the security system at his house, and finally his phone number itself. When all of these come up short, I try my own phone number, and then out of sheer desperation, I try Elaine's.
Bingo.
"His wife's phone number," I mutter, smiling at the thought of Dawson's naive belief that something so simple would ever keep me out. "The guy's got ambition, I'll give him that."
"So now that you've illegally accessed his account," Mezki says, "what's your plan? You know, just in case I ever need to recount these events in front of some kind of disciplinary panel."
"I need the files related to two cases," I reply as I plug a USB drive in the computer. Opening various folders on Dawson's desktop, I start looking through for file names related to the women who turned up out at that farm the other day, as well as anything covering the fire at the nearby building. I'm not certain how Dawson would have titled any relevant reports, so I just start going through everything I can find and copying it to my drive.
"You realize this is grossly unethical, right?" Mezki says after a moment.
"Don't you have work
to do?" I ask, focusing on getting the files copied as quickly as possible.
"I should be stopping you," he replies. "The only reason I'm not is that I'd rather stand back and watch the resulting storm from afar. Dawson's gonna know you've done this."
"How?" I ask.
"Because you'll tell him. You'll decide to show off by bragging about how easily you guessed his new password and got into his files."
"I -" I start to say, before realizing that he's right. "Not for ages," I reply bitterly. "I'll wait until it doesn't matter anymore, and anyway, I'll put it in context and he'll totally understand. He'll be fine with it. Hell, he's always fine with it eventually." Searching through the last set of files, I realize that there's nothing relating to the two cases I'm interested in. Opening up the main database, I start searching for the cases, but pretty quickly I come up against another password-protected folder.
"Problem?" Mezki asks.
"The IT system's all fucked up again," I reply. "Dawson's working these cases so he should have full access to the relevant files."
"Not anymore," Mezki replies. "He requested to be taken off both those cases this morning. He's been transferred to a suspicious house-fire out in the suburbs instead. Jordan Carver's taken over the case about those girls."
"Jordan who?" I ask, frowning as I stare at the screen.
"Some new hot-shot guy who's been parachuted in to give us a kick up the ass and get better results. So far he's done a hell of a lot of kicking, and... well, I guess the results are supposed to come through any time now." He pauses to take a sip of coffee. "The guy's got crazy eyes. He's intense, and he's got the whole department running scared."
Still trying to get the files I want from the network, I can't help but wonder why the hell Dawson would ask to be taken off an investigation. He's covered dozens of cases exactly like this in the past, and even though the pieces didn't seem to be coming together so far, he must have known that I'd come riding to the rescue eventually. With a new boss to impress, I'd have thought he'd be keen to get some early glory.