by Krishna Ahir
"Because you're predictable," she said. "And childish." Looping her arms over his head, Elaine lifted herself up onto her toes and tilted her head to the side, smiling. "But mostly because I heard the door."
Drake planted a kiss on her and came away tasting aloe Vera on his lips, exactly as he had expected. "I guess I'm going to have to be a bit sneakier next time then."
Elaine grinned. A sly and astute smile, indicative of how well she knew her husband. Drake knew the look all too well. He could almost imagine her calling him out, telling him that she knew he let himself get caught by her on purpose. But she didn't say that. The smile was a conversation without words, punctuated by glances.
"So, you going to tell me what's wrong?" Elaine asked, brushing a stray hair off Drake's shoulder. "Or do I have to dig it out of you?"
Drake smirked slightly and let out a sigh, the air escaping his lips bearing a heavy sound. He knew that she would pick upon how tired he looked; how out of place the bags under his eyes were. "Just a long day," he answered, scratching the side of his head and reveling in the soothing sensation of the nails dragging over his scalp. "Domestic trouble in downtown. You know how those can sometimes get."
"And?" she asked, as astute as ever.
"And I've finally started getting somewhere with this feeling I've been getting," he muttered, leaning back against the countertop behind him. His arms folded over his chest. "Though I'm not exactly sure if that's a good thing. Thought that the Detective was gonna rip me a new one..."
"Well did he?"
"No... God knows why."
"Maybe he thought that you were on to something? That or he's finally at that age where he's stopped caring."
"Harold doesn't stop caring," Drake grinned. "He's more machine than he is human. You know what he's lived through. Shit, you were the one that told me, when I found out he was gonna be my new boss."
"Blame all those garbage Crime shows that I watch."
"I'd do no such thing," he smiled. "But still... It's unsettling: Him giving me his approval to continue on this."
"Why?" Elaine asked, gripping the sides of his face and laughing as she hooked her thumbs on the corners of his mouth, to force Drake's lips into a smile. "Not everything has to be doom and gloom. He could just be being nice."
Finally giving in to his wife's prodding, Drake let his mouth curl into a smile. Warmth flooded his face and laughter started to escape his lips. As he waved off Elaine's hands, he found himself wondering if Harold had been programmed for niceness.
_________________________________________
James Harold felt his eyes grow weary behind his glasses. His eyelids flickered and dared to close, weights seemingly hanging from his lashes and trying to drag them down. Closing his book, he placed the paperback on the table beside him and removed his glasses. Pinching the bridge of his nose, Harold blinked hard, to rid himself of the lingering effects of tiredness.
Past the haze of sleep, he watched Joslyn. She had fallen asleep in her armchair, the pale light from the television falling over her milky skin. The shawl wrapped around her head had slipped ever so slightly, exposing the smooth skin of her scalp.
The cancer had been in remission for the past two weeks.
Thank God... he thought, before he stopped himself. This was a time where relief was a concept barely spoken of. It came sparingly and fled quickly. Harold knew the dangers and pitfalls of giving in to relief. He knew that as soon as it settled, you were dragged back into despair by the hair.
It was the second time in four months that Joslyn had supposedly been in remission. Harold couldn't allow himself to fall back into the trap of feeling relief; he couldn't stand heartbreak.
Joslyn stirred slightly and Harold felt his breath catch in his throat. He didn't want to wake her.
As he watched her sleep, Harold caught himself thinking that this wasn't how it was meant to be. He had transferred out of the MET to take command of a station in the countryside, spend time in quiet comfort, accumulating funds for retirement. They were supposed to leave it all behind, move to sunny Spain to be with his family. A tranquil life as experts say. Harold pictured a stout wooden beach hut; a stone's throw away from the sea. Macie would have brought the grandchildren to visit in the summer, while they were out of junior college, and Jullian would come to see them in the sparse time that he had off work.
Their dreams of the future had been crushed when Joslyn had received her diagnosis. Stage 2 breast cancer. The doctor had told them they had been lucky to catch it when they did. At the time, Harold had to hold himself back from punching him in the face. There wasn't anything lucky about it at all. He didn't trust doctors. Even less so after they had claimed the mastectomy had been a success. It wasn't more than a week later that they discovered the cancer had spread to her chest wall. At that point, it had developed into Stage 3. They started her on Chemotherapy almost immediately.
Reaching out, through the dull fog of sleep, Harold fumbled for his book and placed his glasses back onto his face. After several seconds he realized, with bitter disappointment, that he had lost his place. He hated bookmarks (and despised with fiery passion anyone uncultured enough to fold over the pages of a book). He hated the way they left even a slight crease in the page when you looked down at the top of a book, but now he was regretting his practice of simply remembering page numbers. With all the stress brought on by Joslyn's illness his mind had been rattled and slow. He was nowhere near as sharp as he used to be.
His mind crawled back towards Drake Gregory. Harold was surprised at how astute the Constable was. Not since he had been part of the Murder Squad in the London Metropolitan Police had Harold seen anyone pick up on signs like that, and very rarely was it noticed before anybody had been killed. Signs like those were often caught in hindsight. (Early indications of psychopaths included marked cruelty towards, and even the killing of, animals, typically beginning with smaller domestic pets such as cats and dogs.) They were often things quoted by reporters and newscasters as something seemingly obvious that the local police should have picked up on. Harold found himself recalling a journalist who once felt the need to question him on why the harming of animals wasn't caught on much earlier. The reply that he gave him was the same as the thought currently settling in the forefront of his mind: "The patterns of animal cruelty are almost impossible to pick up on. And when they are recognized it's usually by a family member, and the child responsible is put into therapy. The level of animal abuse that is indicative of a psychopath of this degree is massive and, often, extremely difficult to connect and track, unless you already know where to look."
And yet Drake had managed to recognize a pattern.
The prospect of finding such an individual early in their life both thrilled and daunted Harold. It left him with a cocktail of confused feelings inside him, swirling together, yet remaining separate and distinct, like an imperfect emulsion. On one hand, it allowed for early apprehension and identification. It meant that the person responsible could have entered into rehab to curb the impulses that could potentially lead to murder. On the other, should they be too far gone, Harold would be confronted with a particular breed of monster that he hadn't encountered since the Moor Murderer. And, given Joslyn's current condition, he didn't know if his emotions would be able to hold strong.
Rubbing his face, Harold tried to clear his head. Flipping open his paperback, he managed to find a sentence that he recognized. It may not have been exactly where he had been, but it was good enough.
He needed to dismiss the thoughts of Drake and the cats. Dwelling on them was doing nothing for Joslyn.
More importantly, he had no concrete proof that the disappearances of the cats were a result of a blooming psychopath. It was in his best interests to leave it to Drake. He would only become involved when, and more importantly if, it came about that his suspicions were one hundred percent correct.
For a second time Joslyn moved in her sleep, teetering on the edge of waking. Harold
rose to his feet and fetched her a glass of water. He set it down on the high table next to her armchair before sinking back down into his space, in the corner of the sofa closest to her.
Flipping the novel open again he realized, once again, that he had lost his place.
Chapter 3
Christopher was on his morning walk to junior college when he finally decided how he was going to progress with the predicament he had landed himself in. The solution he came to, however, was the decision that he wasn't going to decide. As opposed to acting on the signals himself, and talking to Georgina, he would wait for her to make a move on him. Granted it was the coward s way out, but it was also the easiest. He would attend the party on Thursday night, make it known that he was available and if Georgina gave any hints towards her interest, then he would know that it was acceptable to proceed. And if, during that moment, he didn't feel the connection he was looking for, he would know exactly where to end it.
Christopher was thankful for finally reaching some kind of conclusion. It filled him with a sense of ease and allowed him to focus more readily on other aspects of his life, like the big burden had been lifted from his shoulders. His mind slipped back into the ease of the mundane and small distractions: The sound of leaves, dangling from overlooking trees, rustling as they were caught in the breeze; the occasional flash of color as a car passed him on his left; the rough feeling of red brick beneath his fingertips as he trailed his hand over the top of the wall beside him; the sight of a younger girl walking parallel to him, across the street.
The damp veil of rain descending on him left his clear skin damp and the gentle feel of the wind chilled him into sense of life; like he had just woken up from a refreshing nap. Christopher had a brief flash of a long-ago memory - Waking up early in the morning after a gathering at Lester's house, Barbara suggesting, to clear their hangovers, they should go for a walk in the pouring rain. Small fragment of the memory made him grin a little.
A dull buzz on his skin brought him back to reality. Pulling out his vibrating phone, he looked down at the screen before hitting the green icon and lifting the device to his ear.
"Who the hell calls people these days?"
"I do," Barbara's voice replied. "You got a problem with that?"
"I've got a few problems with it," he chuckled. "So, what do you want?"
"I'm running kind of more than a bit late," she rattled out, her numerous double negatives drilling into Christopher's brain. "Could you be an absolute doll and run to the IT labs for me. I was supposed to print out this essay for Warner's class, but my printer ran out of ink, and I can't get in early enough to do it myself."
"What, do I look like a gofer to you? And why can't you get Marty to do it? I'm pretty sure this falls into the spectrum of 'boyfriend duties'."
"You know he always skips first period on a Wednesday," she said. Her voice took on a whining, pleading tone. Like a small child wailing for its parents' attention. "Come on, Christopher. I'll love you forever!"
"You damn well better," he replied, grunting and scratching the side of his head, with his free hand.
"So that means you'll do it?"
"What can I say, it seems you convinced me."
After a rushed round of "thank yous from Barbara, Christopher hung up and wiped the phone against his shirt, to wipe the rainwater from the device.
Up ahead of him, the junior college started to come into view. He remembered a time when he enjoyed going to junior college. The memory was distant and detached, almost as if it wasn't his own. Junior college was a place filled with rules and restrictions, both of which were concepts that Christopher held in contempt. He didn't like being regulated; didn't like being told what he needed to learn. All things considered; he would have enjoyed junior college a lot more if he had a choice in the specifics of his studying. He preferred the people to the place. His friends were the only thing that made it tolerable.
Entering the crowd of crushed bodies as they streamed through the gates, Christopher pushed through the swarm and picked up his pace. He didn't like to be late, and if he was going to print the papers for Barbara before first period, he would need to move quickly.
He arrived at the Computer Lab with time to spare, collapsing into one of the chairs and dragging the keyboard of the closest desktop towards him. The tips of his fingers clacked across the keys, filling his head with a rapid and rhythmic click. Blue flared across his hazel eyes, as the screen came to life and he logged onto Barbara's user.
It was then that he felt a strange sensation.
A slight tingle raced across his skin, traversing the bridge between his shoulder blades before shooting down his spine. Goosebumps rose up on the skin of his arms. It was a sensation that his mother had often referred to as happening when "someone walked over your grave". The phrase had never sat right with Christopher, leaving him with a sickening feeling of disrespect, deep in the pit of his stomach. It implied that, eventually, everybody stopped caring. That one day, all that would be left of him was a neglected patch of ground in the middle of an overgrown church yard; only disturbed when someone casually stepped on his sacred piece of earth.
Turning his head slowly Christopher eyed the room. It wasn't that he expected to see anything; however, the tingle had roused an unfounded sense of paranoia. His eyes dragged across the surroundings, reassuring him that nothing was amiss.
In his mind, he counted off everything that his gaze fell upon. Three other students sat at desktops dotted around the room, no doubt busying themselves completing some urgent piece of homework. In the corner a large portable fan, typically reserved for the summer heat, stood dejected, pointed into the corner like a punished child. A pile of broken monitors took up residence on the top of a desk in the corner opposite the fan, ignored by the staff and crying out for repair. Past which were several more computers, leading up to the one which Christopher was using.
And through the glass window, set into the door to his right, someone was watching him.
_________________________________________
Drake stared down at the monochrome sheets in front of him and cursed himself for deciding to enter Law Enforcement. Set down onto his desk was the bane of his life: Paperwork.
He didn't know a single Officer that didn't complain about it. Without a doubt the worst part of the entire career, everybody (with the current exception of Byron) avoided it like the plague. Nothing compared to it. Traffic duty, while monotonous, had brief moments of exciting reprise. Battery and assault often ended ugly, but the satisfaction of the end result trumped all negative connotations. Domestic abuse was soul crushing; however, you left it feeling as if you'd made a difference, no matter how small. Paperwork, unfortunately, offered no sense of excitement or satisfaction; no feeling that you were making a difference. All it provided was the dull pleasure of relief once it was all finished. Even though it never, really, finished.
It was why Drake hated Cop Shows and action movies with an Officer as the main character. He knew for a fact that nobody would be able to perpetuate such an astounding level of carnage without being struck by the unforgiving mistress that was paperwork.
Sipping from the mug of tea that Caroline had made him, Drake closed one eye and shook his head. It was too sweet. No matter how many times he said to her that he didn't take sugar, she always made the tea how she liked to drink it. Next time he would brew the tea how he wanted and see how she liked it.
Actually... he thought. Better not.
Caroline Chambers was the Station's resident badass and crossing her in any way shape or form was best done at one's own peril. At sixty-four years old and standing at just under five foot four, her appearance led many people to mistakenly assume that Caroline was frail. Few minutes of talk with the woman, however, would indicate otherwise. Intimidating was an understatement. In a good mood she was one of the most loving and kind women anyone had ever met, but once her switch was flipped, she was utterly ruthless. Drake recalled an incident a few yea
rs earlier when they had gone out for drinks with several other Officers. Caroline offered to buy him a drink and he had politely declined. Within seconds Drake's answer had to change. She was so forceful and insistent; he thought she was going to slug him if he refused for a second time.
Drake could just about see the flat top of her silver-white bob over the top of his computer monitor.
"I can see you looking at me." Her blunt voice struck him like a mallet.
"Sorry about that Caroline," he apologized, half standing so that he could look at her while he spoke. "I was just thinking... We've been working together a long time, right?"
"Indeed, we have, my love," she replied, leaning back in her chair and training her pale grey eyes onto Drake's face.
"So that means that we know each other pretty well."
"Well enough for me to know that you're dancing around the issue right now, you big head! You going to actually ask me what's on your mind or do I have to dig it out of you?"
Drake emitted a single faint laugh, hidden in the undercurrent of his breath. "What I'm trying to ask is: Do you think I think too much?"
"What kind of question is that?"
"I dunno, it's just something that's been on my mind for a little while."
"Has this got something to do with these bloody cats?" Caroline asked, lifting one of her stout white eyebrows. Noting Drake's stunned expression, she pursued her lips together. "Byron told me."
"I can't trust him with anything."
"Don't blame him, love. He's proud of you; thinks you're actually on to something with this. Said that Harold thought the same." She nodded her head towards the enormous window that framed the DCI's office. "Hell, of a thing, that. Never thought I'd see the day when that old bastard actually cared about someone like you."
"Thanks... I think. But what do you mean 'old bastard'? He's younger than you."
Caroline's face creased up as she started to laugh. "It's rude to ask a woman about her age!"
"I didn't ask," Drake teased. "All I did was make a statement."