James Carol - The Quiet Man

The refrigerator was a place for hoarding memories. Photographs were held in place with magnets. Cody was in all of them. He appeared to be a happy kid. Dark hair, brown eyes, a goofy grin. Looks could be deceptive, but not this time. Sometimes what you saw was what you got. There were a couple of pictures with Mom, the resemblance immediately apparent. Same eyes, same turn to the mouth when they smiled. There were no pictures of Dad. Winter reached out with a gloved hand, his fingertips brushing down over the photographs. Then he closed his eyes and stepped into the zone.

*

The night has the magic to turn the mundane into something remarkable. The moonlight is the catalyst. It has carved the trampoline and basketball hoop into shining grey sculptures. The lawn is a grey lake, the fence and trees rising around it like mountains. The world I now inhabit is a world of unlimited potential. I walk carefully and quietly to the back door, aware of every breath, every heartbeat, every footfall. The neighbouring houses are as silent as this one. I cut a hole in the glass and use the sucker cup to lift it away. In my mind I can see it crashing to the ground and shattering into pieces. I can see the lights coming on. I can hear the sirens.

I lay the circle of glass carefully on the ground and let myself in. The air holds the memory of the last meal that was eaten here. The silence holds the promise of everything that’s yet to come. I pull the kitchen door open and walk through the darkness to the hall. For a moment I stand at the bottom of the stairs, listening. Nobody is moving around upstairs. Mother and son are fast asleep. I go up to the second floor and make my way along the landing. Do I go to the boy’s room first? Probably. I’d need to assure myself that he’s not going to be a problem. I take a peek inside. He’s fast asleep.

I back out of the room, closing the door gently, then walk along the landing to the mother’s room. For what feels like the longest time I just stand there watching her sleep, imagining the possibilities.

So much potential.

She comes awake in an instant, eyes wide, her scream caught in my gloved hand. She’s struggling and the fear makes her strong.

‘Do what I say or the boy dies.’

This is spoken in a sharp whisper. She goes still immediately. There’s hatred burning in her eyes, but she’s hanging on my every word, waiting for the next order.

Winter stood in the doorway of Myra Hooper’s bedroom, momentarily transfixed by the devastation. Two CSIs were working the scene as painstakingly as their colleague downstairs. It only took a moment to turn a home into a death house. One squeeze of the trigger, or a single thrust of the knife. Or, as was the case here, a Christmas-tree light bulb overloading and exploding. Yesterday Myra and Cody’s existence had been travelling on a familiar track of school, work and mealtimes, the familiar routines that define so many lives. Today that train had been well and truly derailed. Nothing would ever be the same again.

Winter took a breath and his nose filled with the stink of Myra’s death. The Fourth of July tainted by the smell of charred meat. There was an earthy undertone there too. Piss and shit. The stench of death. He walked over to the bed and looked down at Myra’s ruined body. Pieces of the bomb were still taped to her chest. Tape to bind her ankles together, tape to bind her hands. A strip across her mouth to stop her screams and shouts escaping. Her chest was a bloody shredded mess. It had been ripped apart when the bomb went off and the red-hot ball bearings had slammed into her. Like buckshot at point-blank range. Her hair and skin were burnt. Clothes and bed linen, too. After the explosion, Cody had rushed in here. He’d used a quilt to stop the fire getting hold, starving it of the oxygen it craved. His quick thinking meant that there was a crime scene to investigate. Unfortunately, no amount of quick thinking had been enough to save his mom.

‘Any thoughts?’ Jefferies asked.

‘Nothing yet.’

‘Okay, let me explain how this sharing thing works. We give you access to the crime scene and you tell us who this guy is. And what his Social Insurance Number is. And his address. And, most importantly, how we catch him.’

That was worth a laugh. ‘If only it was that easy.’

‘Freeman’s going to give me the third degree. You need to give me something to work with here.’

‘And I will. As soon as I’ve got anything you’ll be the first to know.’

Winter walked out of the room, closing the door behind him. Then he shut his eyes and imagined that he was a ten-year-old boy who was just about to kill his mom.

*

The first thing I see when I wake up is the bedside clock. I have to look twice because there must be a mistake. Usually Mom has got me up before now. I head downstairs, wiping the sleep from my eyes and wondering where she is. Maybe I call out for her. Then again, maybe I’m still too sleepy for that.

There’s no sign of her in the kitchen. Usually she has breakfast ready by now. I call out, but she’s not answering. I head to the living room, but she’s not there either. I go back upstairs. I’m wide awake now, and starting to worry. What if she died during the night? She’s not old, but young people can have heart attacks. Or maybe she’s run away. Maybe that’s it. Or maybe she’s been kidnapped or something.

I call out again as I run up the stairs. By the time I get to her bedroom I’m shouting at the top of my lungs, yelling out for her over and over like I’m four again. I pull down on the handle. The door opens an inch, then the explosion slams it back into the frame.

Winter opened his eyes, then opened the bedroom door. Jefferies was standing on the other side, watching. Beyond him, Myra was lying still and lifeless.

‘Why has he moved upstairs?’ Winter asked.

‘This one I do know the answer to. He was worried that he’d wake the kid if he tried to take his mom downstairs.’

‘So, it comes down to risk management?’

‘That’s how I see it,’ Jefferies said. ‘The killer breaks in, overpowers mom and gags her. The kid’s room is at the other end of the landing. So long as he’s quiet, he could pull this off without waking him.’

A quick nod. ‘Yeah, that works.’

Winter retraced his route to the back door, only this time he was thinking about how Myra and Cody had lived rather than how Myra died. He stopped in the living room and looked around. Like the other rooms, it was cosy and comfortable. The sofa was well worn and the wall-mounted TV had a games console wired into it. The controller was lying discarded on the floor next to a bright yellow beanbag.

Collages of holiday photographs were displayed in two large frames behind the sofa. Photographs taken on tropical beaches, photographs on mountains, a photograph with a volcano in the background, evidence of a family who’d liked to travel and have fun together. Scott Hooper wasn’t in any of the pictures. Maybe he’d taken these, but more likely they’d been censored in light of the separation. The framed photograph near the door had been professionally shot. Myra and Cody were looking at each other and laughing. They looked so happy together. There was a band of brighter paint around the frame. Clearly there had been a larger picture here at some point in the recent past. One that had Scott Hooper in as well?

Winter stopped at the kitchen door and pushed it closed. Then he pulled it open and imagined the blast tearing a heart apart. Jefferies was standing close by, looking impatient.

‘And?’ he asked.

Winter shook his head. ‘I’ve got nothing.’