Alex Barclay - The Drowning Child

‘And your brother, Matthew Bryce,’ said Neubig. ‘He flew in to Denver that day, and had had prior phone conversations with Agent Rader.’

She nodded. ‘They got along very well,’ said Ren. ‘Ben called Matthew to see if he would come—’

‘We have it that it was Matthew who called Ben,’ said Neubig.

Jesus Christ. I’m going to fuck this up so bad.

‘I didn’t mean that literally,’ said Ren. ‘I meant they were talking on the phone and when Matt heard that Ben was flying in, he decided to do the same thing. I hadn’t seen Matt in five months, he had to use up some annual leave in work... it all worked out...’ She paused. ‘… would have worked out... very well.’

The blood is draining from my body.

She remembered the night of the shooting, when Matt was waiting at her apartment, waiting to tell her that Ben had been shot dead, then Gary arriving out of the blue, well after midnight, and the confusion, the shock, and the snapping out of it. The abrupt change, the setting aside of the horror and grief to focus. To focus on concocting a story over coffee that no one wanted to drink, but everyone had to drink, to keep them awake, which they didn’t want to be, because they wanted to sleep through their nightmare.

I want to sleep through this nightmare.

Agent Brinks poured a glass of water, and passed it over to Ren.

‘Thank you,’ said Ren, turning to her, sensing she was rooting for her. People are so kind.

‘Would we be correct in saying,’ said Neubig, ‘that the people who were gathered in Safe Streets that evening were your closest friends?’

Don’t cry. Ren nodded. That’s the best I can do. I can nod.

That night, sitting in my apartment, Gary turning to Matt. ‘Matt, you’re the writer: I’ll give you the facts. We need a strong, convincing narrative that will dead-end a potential line of questioning for ever. Something that will hide the fact that Ren was off her meds, that I organized an intervention, that that’s why you and Ben were in Denver, that Rawlins was likely aware of Ren’s condition despite the fact that she told him otherwise.’

Looking at Matt, my heart breaking all over again. Matt was a journalist: an honest, thorough, fact-checking, morally upstanding, award-winning investigative journalist. Telling the truth was his vocation. But how quickly he stood up, and how Gary had looked at him like he thought he was leaving. But, how, instead, without a word spoken, Matt had walked over to the printer, slid out some pages and started to write notes.

They were up all night, they learned their lines.

Remember your fucking lines.

‘They were also my colleagues,’ said Ren.

‘You were late for the meeting,’ said Neubig.

‘Yes,’ said Ren.

‘Why was that?’

‘I was with Detective Joe Lucchesi investigating a building that I believed Duke Rawlins was holed up in.’

‘And Rawlins was not there,’ said Neubig.

‘No,’ said Ren. ‘But he had been. I told Detective Lucchesi that I would go to Safe Streets and bring the team back to the Ostler Building.’

‘You said in your original statement that you believed Duke Rawlins was watching Safe Streets from that building,’ said Neubig.

‘Yes,’ said Ren.

‘Yet you didn’t think that the purpose of that was, perhaps, to gain access to that building at some particular point?’

‘It wasn’t as simple as that,’ said Ren. ‘I believed that he was in pursuit of Detective Lucchesi... and possibly Gary Dettling. Yes. But I couldn’t have predicted what Duke Rawlins was going to do. It was unlike anything he had ever done before. I had studied him, Detective Lucchesi had, the profilers at Quantico had, even Detective Lucchesi’s son had studied him for his Master’s degree in Forensic Psychology. No one predicted this.’

‘OK, thank you, Agent Bryce. That’s all for now.’

For now? Jesus. No more. No more. No more.

Jimmy Lyle walked through the airport terminal, angry and red-faced, dressed in a black jacket, blue jeans and black boots. He was coiled like a spring waiting for a reason to launch; his broad shoulders hunched, his arms rigid, ending in tight fists. But he’d kept his eyes down, because he couldn’t launch, he couldn’t draw attention to himself.

He’d do one night in the house, that was it, then get to the retirement home, pack up his daddy’s things, show his face at Longacres, stand there mourning his fucking eyes out for a couple hours and get the fuck back to his vacation, his car, the plans he’d been forced to rearrange.

After fifteen minutes driving Jimmy’s rental car was suddenly illuminated by flashing blue lights. His breath caught. He felt like his head was going to explode. His leg spasmed and, for a brief moment, his foot struck the accelerator and the car jerked. He looked in the rear-view mirror and saw the police car, its presence like a looming tank that would roll over the rest of his life.

Jimmy got his breathing under control, because his mind had quickly taken him to an image of an officer asking him to pop the trunk of his car. Jimmy knew how to tame the wild breaths because it was what he had learned to do. Just as he was regaining the rhythm – and visualizing an alternative scenario, picturing charming the officer, instead of sitting in the driver’s seat, pale and sweaty and suspicious – the police car drove on.

Jimmy’s relief came out as something between a growl and a cry.

You’re in a rental car. You’re in a rental car. Idiot. You emptied the trunk. Idiot.

You are nothing. You are nothing. You are nothing.

Ren arrived back at Tate PD on Wednesday morning. Ruddock was in his office. He had ordered proper coffee and blueberry muffins from a café in town.

‘God bless you,’ said Ren.

‘Welcome back,’ said Ruddock. He pointed to the table. ‘Good timing...’

‘Thank you, kindly,’ said Ren, grabbing a muffin. ‘Yes – it is. I can sense four things from a thousand yards: coffee, pancakes, blueberry-flavored foodstuff, and Cinnabons.’ Plus wine, beer, champagne, and carnal opportunities .

There were three long black boxes on his desk, the kind that held photos.

His wife’s...

Ruddock saw her noticing. ‘I’m channeling my wife. The local newspaper is running a memorial for an old teacher from town who died.’ He paused. ‘Took his own life, in fact.’

‘Was that the guy in the retirement home?’ said Ren. ‘Beckman mentioned it.’

Ruddock nodded. ‘He was the swim coach for years at the school.’ He paused. ‘You just never know what’s going on in people’s heads, do you?’

You sure don’t . ‘You sure don’t,’ said Ren. ‘Any updates on the case?’ She looked at him properly.

Jesus – he looks shattered.

‘I’m sorry to say, there was an incident Monday night,’ said Ruddock. ‘With Gil... and Seth Fuller.’

What?

‘Gil assaulted him,’ said Ruddock. ‘He messed him up pretty badly, but we got him to the hospital, he’s been patched up, he’s OK... some damage to his back, but mainly cuts and bruises, a black eye. He’s had a few stitches, he’s in pain, but he’ll live to fight another day.’

‘What happened?’ said Ren.

‘According to Gil, it was over a pool debt. Seth owed him fifty dollars.’

Buuuullshit did this happen over $50. She scanned Ruddock’s face. You don’t believe that either, surely...

She nodded politely.

‘Our saving grace,’ said Ruddock, ‘is that Seth’s keeping it quiet, and he’s not pressing charges. At the hospital, he told doctors he didn’t know who the assailant was. And it wasn’t his plan to tell his aunt either.’