Stephen Irwin - The Dead Path

Laine held up her hand-I understand. “The joys of being out there, huh?”

“Yeah.” She laughed and rolled her eyes in mock despair.

Laine smiled. The girl’s eyes were dark brown, the beautiful color of polished rosewood. “But, hey,” said Laine, “this must work as a way to meet people.” She waved at the shop surrounds.

“You’d be surprised how bad, actually.” She laughed again. “I mean, if I was into threesomes with very hairy vegan couples, this would be paradise. But I like… I prefer, you know, more sophisticated women.”

She held her gaze on Laine. Her expression was frank. Women like you, it said. But the moment Laine thought she read that, the other woman looked away and got back to her work.

Laine found her heart thudding harder. She’d never had a woman try to pick her up. Was she trying to pick me up? Is she just being nice? How do I say no?

Do I say no?

Laine blinked, shocked at her own thoughts, and knocked a packet of caraway seeds onto the floor.

“Sorry!” she said, and stooped to pick it up.

“Don’t be silly.” The girl knelt, too. As they stooped, their foreheads tunked together.

“Ow!”

“Oh!”

The girl threw back her head and laughed. Laine smiled wider, rubbing her head. She’s attractive. She has beautiful skin. Beautiful lips. How long since you were kissed? How long since anyone traced their fingers over your belly? Looked at you like you were beautiful? Laine inhaled through her nostrils. The girl’s hair smelled like sandalwood. Exotic. Different. Clean and exciting. And her eyes. Dark brown and deep…

“What’s your name?” the girl asked, watching her.

“Laine.”

“Laine.” She said the name slowly, her tongue flicking behind her white teeth, as if tasting it.

Laine felt a small shudder below her navel. “And yours?” Laine asked.

“Rowena.” She stared at Laine’s face, her skin, her eyes. Appraising. Approving. “Here.” She reached up and gently swept aside the stray hairs over Laine’s eyes, pushed them back, and swooped them behind Laine’s ear. Laine sucked in a breath at the touch of another’s fingertips on her temple, her ear, her neck. Laine half-turned her head. I shouldn’t like this. Not from a girl.

“How’s that bump?” Rowena whispered.

She softly took Laine’s face in both hands. Her palms were dry and cool. She tilted Laine’s face to her own. Her mouth opened slightly and she leaned forward.

“Looks just fine,” she whispered softly, and dropped her eyes to look right into Laine’s.

Those eyes, thought Laine. Beautiful eyes.

Rowena smiled. Lips apart. White teeth. Red lips.

“Good,” whispered Laine. She leaned forward.

The ringing of her mobile phone was as shrill and sudden as a steam whistle. Laine rocked back in surprise. Rowena’s fingers slid on her skin, and one nail caught on her jaw, slicing into the flesh, drawing blood.

“Oh, God!” cried Rowena. “I’m so sorry.”

Laine jerked back. She felt the burning of the deep scratch on her jaw.

The phone trilled again, insistent. She fumbled into her bag.

“It’s fine. Fine.”

“You’re bleeding.”

Laine blinked, and raised her fingers to her cheek. They came away lightly dotted with red. Rowena stood and hurried to reach under the counter.

“I’m fine, it’s nothing.”

Was I going to kiss her? What was I thinking?

Rowena returned with a tissue. “Here…”

She gently reached for Laine’s cheek. Laine fought the urge to shrink back from her. Rowena pressed the tissue onto Laine’s skin. The scratch pulsed in new pain.

I’m sorry, she mouthed.

Laine forced a smile-forget it-and finally grabbed her phone and hit the green button. “Hello?”

“Mrs. Laine Boye?”

“Ms. Boye, yes.”

“Ms. Boye. Okay. This is Detective Sergeant Anne Waller from Police Headquarters. I need to ask you a couple of questions. Is now a good time?”

Rowena frowned as she pulled away the tissue. A flecked line of blood on the white gauze.

“One second.” Laine covered the phone with her hand. “I’m sorry, I have to go outside and…”

Rowena nodded. “Sure. But come back in and I’ll put some pawpaw ointment on that. I’m so sorry.”

Laine stepped outside. The door shut behind her. Rain tattled on the awning overhead.

“Sorry. Go ahead.”

“Ms. Boye, can I ask you about your movements last night?”

“What’s going on?”

“If you could please tell me what you did last night, and the times.”

Laine’s heart started thudding again. She turned around.

In the back of the store, Rowena was frowning, hands busily tidying.

“Ms. Boye?”

“I went to the Anglican-what do you call it? Parsonage?-here in Tallong about eight or so and was there with Reverend Anand till, I guess, ten?”

The detective asked a few questions to confirm the times, to confirm she drove straight there and back, to confirm what make of car she owned.

“And I have a Nicholas Close here,” said Detective Waller. “He wants to talk to you.”

Laine looked into the shop. Rowena was out of sight.

“Sure.”

She took the opportunity to slip away into the rain.

N icholas leaned against the cold black granite of the Police Headquarters building, wanting desperately to sit.

Rain was hitting Roma Street so heavily that he wouldn’t have been surprised to see the bitumen pit and dissolve. Only by pressing himself against the building could he get any cover from the high, clipped-wing awnings. The metal bench seats out front were all exposed to the rain and rang dully as the heavy drops struck them. Nicholas shut his eyes, figuring anyone passing would take him for a swaying vagrant too pitiful to charge.

For the last half-hour, he’d been trying not to watch a middle-aged man on the footpath in front of him reel under a barrage of invisible punches, fall to the ground, heave and jerk as he was struck by unseen kicks to his kidneys, his groin, his head. The man’s face was white and wide with terror and, under the steady bombardment of ethereal steel-tipped toes, caved in and bloodied. His eyes came out. His jaw snapped. His fingers bent and their bones broke through skin. Gradually, he stopped his voiceless wailing, spasmed briefly, and was still. Then there was a silent edit in the spool of his death and he was suddenly swaying whole and seemingly drunk beside the steel bench in front of Nicholas, his ghostly clothes dry despite the downpour… and the grisly replay of his murder began again.

Nicholas was too exhausted to lift his feet and find another spot to wait. It was now well after eleven. His hour and a half in the police building had been almost solid questioning, punctuated with short breaks when the detectives left him alone. He supposed the pauses were designed to allow him to panic and consider confessing. Instead, they gave him time to divine from the questions what might have happened to Hannah Gerlic’s sister, Miriam.

Detective Waller and that slim male detective had tag-teamed the interview. Each asked slow, deliberate sets of questions: some were repeated over and over; some were rephrased or amalgamated with others; some came out of the blue to catch him off guard. Nicholas’s favorite had been: “Why did Miriam take your cigarettes?” He’d chewed over the cleverness of that while he leaned against the ice-cold wall, recalling how carefully Waller had watched his response. “I never saw her,” he’d replied truthfully. He supposed Waller had been hoping for “I don’t smoke” or better yet, “I don’t know, but the little bitch has still got ’em.”

“When you picked up Hannah Gerlic, was she alone?” Waller had asked.