Alex Barclay - The Drowning Child

Seth tore the packet open, slid out the patch. He thought of Aunt Shannon again. Her sister was dead, Aaron was dead... all she had was him. He felt bad for her that an ex-junkie jailbird screwed-up piece of crap was all she had left in this sorry-ass world. He thought of her walking in on him, slumped on the floor, his sleepy, druggie eyes, knowing how weak he really was, after all the time she believed in him.

She’s not going to walk in on me.

I’ll be back in a while.

He thought of her finding him dead.

Like I’m going to freakin’ die. It’s just one patch.

One grain...

No way I’m going to freakin’ die. Like I’d let Roger Lyle win. Fuck, no. No way.

Seth peeled the clear cover off the patch. He sucked in air, first through his nostrils, then his mouth, his chest swelling, more air, more, more. He stared at the patch again.

I just need to dissolve for a little while. I just need my chest to rest.

He placed the patch on his tongue. He closed his eyes. He breathed like Lockwood taught him.

He thought of some lady lying all skinny in her bed, one patch down. Cancer-stricken. Stricken.

What am I stricken with? The shittiness of people’s screwed-up fantasies, of early deaths, of just life, of injustice, of children in pain with no voices and no breath.

Warm and liquid.

His eyes started to close, his heart slowed.

I don’t want to die. I’ve got this.

You’ve got this, Seth.

I’ve got the rest of my life.

I’m tired.

I’m so fucking tired.

Ren woke up with a start, her chest heaving, slick with sweat.

Fuck. Fuck. Fuck.

She grabbed her cell phone and checked the time. Eight thirty.

Fuck. Fuck. Fuck.

What happened?

Nightmares. Neubig. Brinks. Courtroom. Matt. Gary. Witness box. Faces. Gunfire. Prison. Jesus. Christ. I hate this shit.

She turned to the empty side of the bed. I don’t want to be alone. I’m tired of being alone. I want someone to tell me it will all work out.

Ren arrived at Tate PD at nine, hurrying across the parking lot, struggling with her purse, and her briefcase. The command center had been overtaken by a sense of urgency – voices were raised, detectives were mobilizing.

Sensory overload. Sensory overload.

Her phone beeped with a text, just as she met Paul Louderback rushing toward her, pulling on his jacket.

‘That’s from me,’ he said.

Her phone beeped three more times.

‘What’s going down?’ said Ren.

‘A report just came in,’ said Paul, ‘a body – badly decomposed, as yet unidentified – has been found in Roger Lyle’s house on Richmond Road.’

‘Oh, no,’ said Ren. ‘Oh, fucking, no.’

Ren and Paul drove together to the scene.

‘I thought you said that area was searched during the week,’ said Ren.

‘Because I was told it was,’ said Paul. ‘Wiley again – abandoning his duties. He crossed this off his list.’

‘His wife,’ said Ren. ‘She had a meltdown on Thursday. He had to go tend to her. He probably figured leaving an empty house off his list wasn’t the end of the world. Fuck, though.’

Ruddock was gray-faced, coming down the path as they arrived.

‘Got an ID?’ said Ren.

‘One Franklin J. Merrifield,’ said Ruddock.

‘What?’ said Ren.

‘Looks like an OD: drug paraphernalia around the body.’

‘This is where he’s been hiding out?’ said Ren.

‘He was chained to a radiator,’ said Ruddock. ‘This is where he was being held captive.’

‘Yet supplied with drugs,’ said Ren. ‘So, this has to be connected with his supplier in BRCI. He probably helped him get away, but may have wanted him out of commission and deliberately facilitated the OD. How did they access the property?’

‘No signs of forced entry,’ said Ruddock.

‘Who has keys?’ said Ren.

‘The son – Jimmy Lyle,’ said Ruddock. ‘There are footprints in the back yard and one of the neighbors saw him getting out of a car yesterday on Pleasant Lane – that’s the road at the back of here. He may have come back, found the body and then taken off.’

‘He would only have done that if he had something to hide,’ said Ren. ‘I’d be getting everyone the fuck inside my house if I came home and thought there was a dead body in there.’

‘We’ve put a BOLO out on him,’ said Ruddock.

‘Could Jimmy Lyle have helped Merrifield escape?’ said Ren. ‘Could he have left him here?’

‘No,’ said Ruddock. ‘He was going on vacation, and he needs to sell that house.’

Ren nodded.

‘We spoke with the boss of the real estate agency,’ said Ruddock. ‘The woman handling the property has been away on business for the past week. There were no viewings lined up.’

‘Find out her address,’ said Paul, ‘find out who she lives with, who she works with, who might have access to her keys.’

‘The call between John Veir and Rob Lockwood on the Sunday Merrifield escaped,’ said Ren. ‘What if that was about this? Could... Lockwood have been the supplier? Could this have all been about to hit the fan? Could Merrifield have been about to blow Lockwood’s cover, and Lockwood needed to get him the fuck out of there?’

‘But how does John Veir fit in?’ said Paul.

‘Well, John Veir didn’t reveal the whole fentanyl story to us,’ said Ren, ‘which would totally have bolstered his claim that Merrifield had taken Caleb.’

Her phone beeped with a second email from Bob Freeborn at CVIP.

‘We’ll leave this with you, Ruddock,’ said Paul.

She waited until she was back at her desk to open Bob’s email:

We cross-matched one of the structures in the sleeping-bag photos to later photos... these ones were taken between six and eight years ago.

Ren started to look through them. She stopped at one that had a yellow inflatable kiddie’s pool and stepping stones trailing back through the garden.

Where did I see those stones in the grass? That shape?

She closed her eyes.

The stones in the grass.

Darkness. Moonlight. Grass. Wet. I... fell.

Ruddock appeared in the doorway.

‘It’s not just Jimmy Lyle who’s gone AWOL,’ he said. ‘Teddy Veir just called to say that John Veir has been missing since last night. And he left his cell phone at home.’

‘I might know why,’ said Ren. ‘I just got more photos from CVIP and, if I’m right, they were taken in the Veirs’ back garden.’

There were two cars in the Veirs’ driveway when Ren arrived: one was Teddy’s. Ren rang the doorbell. She could see Teddy through the glass, at the bottom of the stairs. She opened up right away.

‘Can I come in?’ said Ren.

‘Of course,’ said Teddy, panic flashing in her eyes. ‘What is it?’

‘Have you had any word from John?’ said Ren.

‘No,’ said Teddy.

‘Who’s here with you?’ said Ren.

‘My friend, Patti.’

Patti Ellis, who you were looking after the night before Caleb disappeared.

You look better than I thought you would.

‘Can we all take a seat?’ said Ren. ‘This is a very difficult subject, but considering everything, I have no choice but to tell you about this. We received photos from CVIP – that’s the Child Victim Identification Program. Your sleeping bag, Teddy, came up as a match with one that was seen in the background of photos of child abuse, dating from the seventies to the nineties.’

‘OK,’ said Teddy, ‘but we wouldn’t have used it during that time. It was years later. Like we said, we never really knew where it came from.’