by David Haynes
She nodded, her hands wringing, her fingers fussing with her boiler suit.
“Where did you get it?” he asked. This was the fifth time he’d asked the same question.
She shook her head. “I…I…don’t know.”
Each time the same answer.
“Here in town?”
She shrugged, her eyes never moving from the book in his hand.
“Thing is,” he said, “I don’t know why you want it so bad. There’s nothing in it. It’s just full of blank pages. Same as this one.” He held Alex’s book up.
She lifted her eyes, took just a brief glance at the other book before bringing her focus back.
“You don’t understand,” she said. “It’s my book. It’s my story. I need it back.”
“I can’t do that, Linda,” he replied.
She starting wailing, the noise worsening his headache tenfold.
“I need you to shut up,” he said. But she wouldn’t, she just kept screaming and wailing.
“I said, shut the fuck up!” he shouted.
Palmer was on his cot in the next cell, his face a sick, mechanical caricature of his previous appearance. He looked Ronayne up and down, settling briefly on the books. He had no desire to reach out, not like Linda. His eyes were bruised and pathetic. Pedophiles were pathetic. He’d met enough of them to know that much.
“What are you looking at?” he said, his tone aggressive.
Palmer closed his eyes and rolled over.
Ronayne was angry, angrier than he could ever remember being. He was tired and stressed up to his eyeballs, and none of these bastards he had locked up were talking. They weren’t even trying to lie to him, they weren’t saying anything at all. He’d never seen anything like it.
His right hand fell to his holster, to the cold polymer grip of his Glock. To the safety. Linda was still wailing, staring at him, her eyes pleading.
“Shut up! Shut up! Shut up!” He was drawing his weapon, his hands closing around the grip, pulling it free.
“You okay down here?”
The cop stood in the doorway, a mug of coffee in his hand. He looked at Ronayne’s hand and then frowned.
“You okay, buddy?” he asked.
Ronayne dropped his hand, straightened his jacket. “Not by a long way.” He stepped around the officer and climbed the stairs. “Not by a very long way.”
25
Ronayne stepped onto the sidewalk and took a good, long, deep breath of Silver Lake air. His head was pounding, his brain squeezed tight by his skull. He wiped the sweat off his brow and glanced across the road. What had he been about to do? What would he have done if the cop hadn’t shown up? He shook his head. He was on the edge, right on the edge, but he needed to see this investigation out. Put it to bed and then maybe he would take a vacation with his family. Sitting somewhere warm, by a pool sipping cocktails, playing with his little girl. Right now that sounded like heaven.
But for now, he’d have to settle for a coffee. A strong cup of coffee and ten minutes away from the office. That’s all he needed to straighten himself out. He put a foot down on the road, checking both directions and stopped.
The truck belonging to those two idiots who’d tried to kill Palmer was parked across the street, a little farther down, just outside the bookshop. They’d been hanging around for a couple of days, waiting outside the station for…for no reason. Didn’t they have something better to do with their time? No, probably not. Men like that seldom did.
One of the local cops had moved them on earlier but it didn’t seem they’d gone far. Maybe it was time he had a conversation with them. A real conversation.
He crossed the road and starting walking. He’d only managed a couple of yards before the two of them trotted down the steps from the shop, climbed into that beaten-up old Ranger and drove away. Was one of them holding something? The thinner guy, the one who looked like he could get real nasty in hurry. Was it a book?
Ronayne looked down at his hand. He had both books with him, still safely packed away inside transparent evidence bags. He couldn’t talk to those two idiots today, but he’d catch up with them before he left town. Maybe he should visit the bookstore instead. It was obviously open. Perhaps he could even find out what those two were doing hanging around there. They didn’t seem like the reading type.
He walked quickly down the street and stopped outside the bookshop. The door was closed, the windows blacked out, just the same as it always was. He took the steps and banged on the door. Nothing. He banged again and still there was nothing. He’d just seen the door open. There had to be someone in there.
“Hello!” he shouted. “It’s the police. I need to talk to you.”
He waited, taking a step back, looking at the upper floors. No signs of life existed at all. He banged again and then stepped back onto the sidewalk. He ground his teeth together, feeling the tension in his jaw, all the way to the top of his skull. He turned away.
“I’m sorry, sir, I didn’t hear you knocking.”
He turned around. A man in his seventies, maybe older, was standing by the open door. His eyes were friendly, his face rounded and jolly.
“I was out the back, you see. Checking on my new stock. Won’t you come in, Detective…?”
“Ronayne.” He held out his hand.
“Castavet,” the old man replied. “At your service, Detective Ronayne.” He gestured for Ronayne to step inside.
He took a quick look and then followed Castavet’s lead. This wouldn’t take long. It was a job he could mark off his to do list. Then hopefully he would never have to come back to this godforsaken town again.
The shop was dark, a couple of lamps placed here and there. He supposed it was atmospheric, to make it more attractive to customers. If he ever had any.
“Those two gentlemen bothering you?” he asked.
Castavet closed the door behind him. “No, sir. They were just browsing.”
“Did they find anything they liked?”
“Oh, yes, indeed. Well, one of them anyway,” he replied. “Nobody leaves Castavet’s empty-handed.” He nodded at the books in Ronayne’s hand. “I see you have a couple of my books there.”
Ronayne nodded. “I’ve called by a couple of times but you were always closed.”
“Oh yes, I’m afraid my days of working nine to five are behind me now. I run the shop as…as a hobby, I suppose. Because of that, my hours are irregular. I open when I can and when the mood takes me.” He smiled again. “Might I ask where you found those two? I’m no expert but they appear to be in evidence bags? Is that correct?”
The old man had a way of talking that was like some British period drama. It was very correct, his enunciation of every syllable immaculate. It was a little unsettling. Out of place.
“You’ve heard about the…the deaths in town, I expect?”
“Only recently. This morning, in fact. The men who arrived just before you.” He leaned forward. “I suspect they were drunk, or had been drinking in the very near past.”
That sounded about right. They reeked of cheap whiskey in the woods the other day. He didn’t think it was a one-off that they smelled that way.
“Unfortunately, we found these books at a couple of the incidents. I just wanted to know if you recall selling them?”
He held the bags up, but there was nothing to distinguish them from each other except by their size.
Castavet shook his head, stepping behind his counter. “I’m afraid my memory isn’t what it was. Customers come and go. Why, I couldn’t even tell you the names of the two gentlemen who came this morning.” He laughed.
“Do you keep records?”
He shook his head. “Sorry, but no.” He paused. “Am I in trouble? I mean, my tax records are up to date and…”
Ronayne smiled, almost laughed. “It’s nothing like that, Mr. Castavet. I’m just trying to find out when they were bought. That’s all. You’re not in any trouble.”
Castavet held a hand to his chest.
“I must say I’m relieved to hear it. Would you like me to take a closer look?”
Ronayne put the evidence bags on the counter and looked around. Rows of shelving stretched into the darkness at the back of the store, each one neatly stacked with books. From the outside, the store looked nothing special, bland and relatively small compared to the others in town. It seemed impossibly large on the inside. Maybe it was just the lighting that gave it such a cavernous feel.
“Yes, they’re both mine. I give them away as free gifts to my new customers.”
“You do? They look a little expensive to just hand out. The covers are leather, right?”
“Expensive? No, not really. And yes, all the bindings are leather. Of a sort.” He turned the bag over.
“And what are they? Exactly?”
“Well, they’re diaries, I suppose. For the customers to write their own stories, create their own personal account. Get the juices flowing!”
Ronayne took back the books. “Mind if I take a look around?”
Castavet smiled. “Be my guest.”
Ronayne walked down the first aisle. On both sides, the shelves were covered in books. He glanced briefly at the titles, not recognizing any of the names on the spines.
“Apologies, but I haven’t got around to fixing the lighting back there yet!” Castavet’s voice echoed.
“Some collection you’ve got here, Mr. Castavet.” He reached out to pull one of the books down.
“Oh, I’d rather you didn’t touch them, Detective.” Castavet was right beside him. He hadn’t heard him approach. “They’re antique you see, quite old and very valuable.”
Ronayne drew his hand away. “Of course, sorry.”
Castavet smiled. In the gloom he looked much older, almost ancient. “Of course, if you’d like, I can show you something more recent that you might appreciate?”
Ronayne returned the smile. What the hell was he doing here? Castavet wasn’t a drug dealer. The guy probably didn’t even know what Advil was. He almost felt sorry for him. He’d be out of business in a couple of weeks. Someone would take advantage of him and rip him off. He’d probably end up like that poor bum who died in the cells. He followed him back up to front of the store.
Castavet took his place behind the counter. “If there’s anything I can do to help, I’d be more than…”
Ronayne shook his head. “Thank you, but I think I’ve got everything I need now.”
“Not quite!” Castavet reached below the counter, pulling out a book similar to the ones Ronayne had in his hand and placing it on the counter. “Nobody leaves empty-handed! You’re going to love, love, love it!”
“No, I really couldn’t,” said Ronayne. He read books from time to time, mostly on vacation, but keeping a diary? It wasn’t something he would ever do.
“Please.” Castavet pushed it toward him. “If not for you, take it for your wife. There is a Mrs. Ronayne, I assume? Take it as a memento of your time in Silver Lake.”
He didn’t want to be reminded of his time in this town, not ever. But the guy seemed genuine enough, and even a little hurt by his reluctance to take it.
“Okay,” he said, picking it up. It seemed to move in his hands, as if it were changing shape. It was almost discernible. He put it down to fatigue.
“Well,” he said, turning away and taking one last look down into the gloom. “Thank you for your help, Mr. Castavet. I’ll leave you to your day.”
He opened the door, the door he couldn’t remember closing, and stepped out into daylight. “A busy morning for you,” he remarked.
“Yes,” Castavet replied. “I think I can afford to close the shop for a while now. Take a well-earned break.” He paused. “And I hope you don’t think me rude, Detective, but you also look in need of a rest.”
Ronayne smiled and walked away. He was going to take that coffee now.
*
The coffee had been lousy, but he felt much better all the same. It wasn’t because of the coffee but his new book, the one Castavet had given him. It didn’t matter who’d written it, he didn’t care about that. It was the words that were important. Each one had been crafted for him, just for him. They swam around in his skull, not entirely pleasantly because they picked and pulled at various threads that, until now, he hadn’t realized were loose.
Ronayne smiled at the waitress, put down a tip and left the diner. He waited for the traffic to pass and then marched across the street to the station. The stresses and sleepless nights of the past few days were lifted. They simply drifted away with the understanding of each word. He knew what he needed to do. Simplicity itself. Quite why he hadn’t thought of it before, he didn’t know. Sometimes you just needed to look at things from a different angle for them to make sense.
Inside the building, the desk sergeant was reading a paperback. It was tattered with a garish cover. Ronayne lifted his Glock, shot a bullet through the middle of his forehead and took the steps down to the cells.
The custody officer was just rising from his desk as he reached the bottom step.
“What…?”
That was all he had time to say before Ronayne put a round through his eye socket.
“You brought my book!” Linda was at the bars, her eyes full of excitement. Ronayne pushed the book through the bars, allowing it to fall to the floor. She was on her knees straight away. She was still trying to pull it free from the evidence bag when he fired the gun right into her face.
Palmer tried to hide in the corner of his cell, behind his cot, but the top of his head was still visible. Stupid fuck. Ronayne blew the top of his skull open and then shot him again as he fell forward.
He heard commotion on the stairs behind him and turned.
Two local officers stood on the stairs, gaping. One of them was reaching for his gun but Ronayne shot him twice in his ample guts. The other officer froze, jaw hanging open. Ronayne pushed the barrel of his Glock into his mouth and pulled the trigger. He was covered in a mixture of blood, bone and brains.
He took the stairs quickly, taking them two at a time. The only way to make all this go away, to put this case to bed and go home to his family, was to kill everyone. Two of the suspects were dead, so that was two ticks off his checklist. Now he had to kill the cops. Then even if there were any more murders, there wouldn’t be anyone to investigate them. Problem solved!
He smiled as he reached the top of the flight and turned left. Coming down from the first floor was his old pal Burton. He’d be pleased to get back home too. All he’d done was whine about Silver Lake since they’d been here.
Burton saw him. “Ronayne? What the…what the hell?”
“Reckon we can go home soon,” Ronayne said. “Just got one or two loose ends to tidy up, then we can go.”
Burton looked him up and down, saw the blood, saw the weapon and then fumbled for his own Glock.
Ronayne lifted his gun and fired. The bullet smashed through Burton’s lower jaw, removing it completely. The man fell to the floor with a loud thump.
Two more officers ran down the stairs, saw Ronayne and drew their weapons. “Stop right there!” one of them shouted.
Ronayne turned and lifted his gun. A fierce pain ripped through his chest. It wouldn’t surprise him if he was having a coronary after all this stress. He fired his weapon, hitting the cop in his knee. He’d meant to hit his head but his aim was a little off now; lifting the Glock was getting tricky with his heart screaming like it was. He fired again, and this time his aim was better, hitting the second cop in the belly. He collapsed, screaming.
Something white hot buried itself in his own guts and started crawling toward his spine. It pinched a little, more than a little actually. He wiped his face, feeling the stress sweat on his forehead. He’d be glad when this was all over.
He squeezed the trigger again, no longer taking aim, emptying the clip. He couldn’t see very well now. There was some kind of tunnel vision thing happening. Goddamn heart. Goddamn stress. Goddamn Silver Lake.
> His chest flared again. He could hear more voices, screams and shouts from all around. He squeezed the trigger, heard the click. And then he was on his knees. His legs didn’t work anymore and the gun was slipping from his grasp. He could switch it to the other hand but he had his book there and he wouldn’t let go of that, not for all the tea in China would he do that.
He fell forward onto his face, his nose smashing in the process. He could taste blood. A lot of blood. He could feel it leaking out of his body. Someone was pulling him onto his side, onto his back. They were trying to take the book from him. He dug his nails into the leather cover. It was his book. His story. Nobody was taking it from him.
26
Only JJ had done the homework assignment, but Dan wasn’t about to give anyone a hard time about it. The classroom was silent, the kids in some kind of daze. Word had got around the school about the weekend’s events, mostly thanks to Ryan Simmons, and understandably none of them felt much like reading.
He dismissed the class, sending them out into the hall for lunch.
“Can I speak to you, sir?” Emily Carr stood by his desk. He could smell perfume on her. The whole class could, she reeked of it. She’d started wearing makeup too, way too much in his opinion.
Sam Portland stood behind her. He tugged her bag.
“I’ll catch up to you, Sam,” she said without turning. “I just need to talk to Mr. Law about the assignment.”
“But…”
“Five minutes,” she turned, touching his sleeve. “I promise.”
He stalked away, looking seriously pissed.
“What can I do for you, Emily?” Dan asked. She was a capable student, punctual with her homework, a solid B grade with the occasional A.
Emily watched Sam leave and then closed the door. She walked back to the desk, smiling. Immediately, Dan felt uncomfortable.
“Can you open…” he started.
Emily eased herself onto his desk, sitting just a few inches away from his hands. She crossed her legs, skirt hitching up to the top of her thighs.