by N. M. Brown
‘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.
‘Morning, Detective,’ she said, and smiled warmly.
‘Good morning, Miss Reiner. You all ready?’
Leighton glimpsed something familiar at her bright eyes, and her long hair pulled back into a loose ponytail. He felt a moment of nostalgia so powerful it threatened to eclipse all other rational thought.
‘Raring to go,’ Vicki said cheerfully.
‘Okay.’ Leighton shrugged. ‘Put your bag in the back seat, and jump in.’
As Leighton waited for Vicki to get in the passenger side, he gazed at the row of flawless beach houses. They were not the most opulent properties at the beach front, but they still whispered of exclusive wealth. Leighton estimated their value to be somewhere between one and two million dollars apiece.
‘Nice home,’ he said, as she clicked the buckle shut on her seatbelt.
‘Yeah.’ Vicki shrugged. ‘It used to be.’
Leighton looked at her inquisitively, sensing some shift in her mood. In a moment it had gone, replaced with her smile, and she returned to her
previous disposition.
‘I just mean, I’m fairly messy,’ she said, but Leighton didn’t believe her.
Deciding it was better to let the matter drop, he put the car into drive, and they headed off.
They had travelled along the smooth grey interstate for fifteen minutes, before the clamouring traffic spread out, and allowed them both to relax. The car windows were opened just far enough to keep a comfortable breeze of morning air blowing through the interior of the car.
The first thing Vicki had noticed when she stepped into it, was that Leighton’s car was immaculate. He had on old style cassette player in the middle of the dashboard; beneath this, was a small shelf, in which a row of plastic cassette cases was carefully arranged in alphabetical order.
‘You just had this thing cleaned just for me?’ she joked, but Leighton just raised one eyebrow quizzically, and shook his head.
‘I just like a tidy car,’ he said by way of an explanation.
‘Yeah, but there’s tidy, then, there’s super-tidy.’
Leighton frowned slightly but said nothing.
‘Come on,’ she pressed. ‘This car is clearly too clean - humans need chaos to thrive.’
‘What do you want me to say?’ he said, feigning irritation.
‘You need to explain this - the neat thing.’ Vicki laughed.
‘It’s not a neat thing; it’s just how I am.’
‘Okay,’ Vicki nodded in agreement. ‘So, where does that neatness come from?’
‘Well,’ Leighton sighed, and adjusted the rear-view mirror, ‘I’m not sure. It just kind of makes sense. For a number of years, my job involved dealing with mess.’
‘Mess?’ It wasn’t really how Vicki had ever considered police work.
‘Yeah, you know, messy lives, messy crime scenes, messy desks. I suppose this,’ he nodded towards the overly tidy interior of the car, ‘is my small place of order.’
He let out a wry chuckle. ‘Sometimes, when I’d get called out in the night, my mind would still be groggy by the time I’d arrive at the scene. I’d take a tour of the place, make all the notes I could, and then, I’d go sit in my car. It was kind of like finding a quiet place in the middle of a storm. Some sort of haven, I suppose.’
He paused for a moment, then adjusted his rear-view mirror again. ‘I reckon most people could survive just about anything, if they get their own little patch of space, and keep it free from the mess of the outside world.’
‘The Leighton Jones mess-free method,’ Vicki said resolutely, and smiled at him. ‘You could sell that idea and become a millionaire.’
‘Amen to that.’ Leighton nodded.
Vicki watched, as some unreadable emotion crossed Leighton’s face.
‘Do you miss it,’ Vicki asked, shifting her tone. ‘The job, I mean?
Leighton glanced at her for a moment, then returned his attention to the road. ‘I miss some of the people from the station, but no, I don’t miss the job in the slightest.’
‘But, it must be a good feeling when you solve a murder.’
Leighton said nothing, and his weighty silence was enough to let Vicki know he was unlikely to talk about the job.
They were now heading up through the orchards fringing the free-way north-east of San Bernardino. Vicki gazed out of the window at the neat lines of the orange groves. She wondered how far exactly Laurie had travelled. Perhaps, she had left the bus somewhere out here, and vanished amongst the aromatic trees.
They were driving through Verdemont, when Leighton smiled, and adopted a formal announcer’s voice.
‘And if you look to your right, ladies and gentleman, you will see a lovely little Pet Cemetery…’
‘What, you’re kidding, right?’ Vicki sat up, and within a few minutes, she saw he was telling the truth. A cheerful sign on the opposite side of the free-way indicated the place where beloved family pets could rest in peace. Vicki smiled at the idea of it, then glanced back at the dashboard of the car.
‘You don’t have sat-nav?’ she asked.
‘What?’
‘You’ve driven sixty or so miles, without glancing a road sign?
‘I used to work Traffic before homicide. My job kind of gave me an internal compass. I’ve never really been a big fan of technology.’
‘Yeah.’ Vicki glanced at his archaic cassettes. ‘I get that.’
She looked out of the window again at the sand-coloured hills on the horizon. It seemed like another country in comparison to her ocean view at home. Yet, Vicki thought there was something about the desert landscape that seemed to mirror the sea. It seemed just as vast and unknown.
Turning back to Leighton, she found him looking to the distant horizon, and wondered if this arid world felt like home to him.
‘Did you like it out here in open country - amongst the Joshua trees, and lizards?’
‘I didn’t work this far outside of the city. But I liked taking a drive up here with my kid on my days off.’
‘Yeah? So, how come you moved across to homicide?’
Leighton sighed, and shifted in his seat, but said nothing. Up ahead, a couple of motor-homes were playing leapfrog, and slowing down the traffic.
‘Well?’ Vicki persisted. ‘Did you get a speeding ticket, or show up drunk for work?’
Leighton glanced at her quickly, then pinched the bridge of his nose.
‘There was nothing scandalous; I just came across a bad accident on the road, one rainy night.’
‘Ah.’ Vicki nodded. ‘A whole lot of fatalities?’
‘No, actually, there was just one,’ Leighton said, and smiled sadly. ‘But, it belonged to my seventeen-year-old daughter. You mind if I put some music on?’ His hand clambered over the cassette cases, sending some spilling on to the floor.
‘Oh, jeez, I’m sorry. Here, let me help you.’
Vicki carefully gathered the cassettes up, and restored the order. She slotted a tape into the mouth of the player, and the sound of Booker White filled the car, eclipsing any further awkward conversation. For a while, there was nothing but warm road and the hissy old music. Eventually, the tape ended, and the player spat it out in a slow, mechanical manner.
‘I’m sorry, Leighton,’ Vicki said in the moment of silence, and looked at the floor.
‘It’s okay,’ Leighton said. ‘Bad things happen to people every day. I reckon that just happened to be my day. Anyway, this traffic’s not going anywhere - must be problems coming in from the Ontario freeway. You fancy a coffee while it settles?’ Leighton pointed to a green roadside sign for a diner up ahead.
‘Sure.’ Vicki, nodded too enthusiastically. ‘That sounds really good.’
Leighton drove on to the exit ramp leading to the parking lot of a small café.
The place was busy for a midweek morning. Inside the red brick building, truck drivers and coach trippers occupied most of the booth seats, eating oversized breakfasts of fried food. Vicki offered to pick up their coffees, if Leighton agreed to secure one of the few free picnic tables outside. He accepted, and made his way to the picnic area, picking up a newspaper from the rack en route.
There was a small grassed area at the back of the diner, where a cluster of chunky wooden tables was scattered around haphazardly. Leighton selected a one furthest away from the dull stench of the garbage bins and the screeching chaos of the kiddies play area.
As he sat down, he dragged his hands over his eyes, then looked to the horizon for a moment. To the north-east, he could see the impressive Marshall Peak against the hazy blue sky. He had managed to avoid driving around this area for several years, but now he was back, as if summoned by his private ghosts. He wondered if he was doing the right thing, agreeing to trip back to his past, especially with a young woman. But, before he could arrive at any conclusion, a shadow passed over him.
‘Here you go.’ Vicki smiled, as she carried the brown tray of coffee and pastries to the table where Leighton was sitting, peering at the back page of the LA Times.
�
�Let me help you,’ he said, as he stood awkwardly.
‘It’s okay,’ she said, placing the tray down. Vicki then sat, and handed a crinkled paper coffee cup to Leighton.
‘I know you said you didn’t want anything, but I’d feel bad eating a Danish in front of you, so I got two almond croissants, oh, and two cinnamon whirls.’
‘Vicki, that’s very kind of you, but four?’
‘Yep, it was buy one get one free.’
‘Hmm.’ Leighton looked unconvinced, but he accepted a pastry gracefully and sipped his coffee. The girl seemed calmer than he had seen her at any time, but he was unsure of what was really going on behind her frequent smiles. If, as he suspected, she was desperately latching on to the unlikely disappearance of her friend, it was probably because something was missing elsewhere in her life. God only knew, following the loss of his daughter, Leighton had clung on to enough things himself.
‘So,’ he said softly, ‘about today?’
‘What about it?’ Vicki tore off a fluffy piece of croissant and popped it in her mouth.
‘Well, how are you feeling?’
Vicki looked to the distance for a moment, then turned back to meet Leighton’s gaze.
‘Excited, or something close it, I suppose.’ She exhaled. ‘Though, I don’t know if excited the right word for this experience.’
‘Why?’
‘Well, either way, I’ll get closer to knowing the truth - we find some sign of a break in, and so have something to go to the police with, or we find Laurie hiding in her hometown, just trying to avoid her unstable old college buddy.’
Leighton took a bite of his pastry, washing it down with some coffee, and looking across at Vicki.
‘But, you really don’t expect to find her there, do you?’ Leighton sipped his coffee again, but held Vicki’s gaze.
‘No,’ Vicki said conclusively, and turned her coffee cup around absently. ‘I don’t.’
‘Though, you do accept it is possible,’ he said tentatively.