by John Chabot
He locked the desk and stood up, his shoulders sagging. He was feeling more rotten by the minute. "Look, Mickie, you handle what needs doing. I have to get out of here for a while. I feel like I've been wading around in a sewer. I'm up to here."
He left the office, starting toward the parking lot in the rear. Mickie called after him, "Harry."
He paused and turned. She said, "Remember what you told me."
"And that was?"
"Don't go to the bottle, don't go bad, and—"
"—and don't take it home," he finished. "Yeah, I know."
He didn't go home. He parked the VW across from the murder scene, and sat looking at the house. It was dark now, a white two-story ghost, standing quietly among the others. The only lighted house was down the street, Kelly's Miata still in front.
He got out and walked up the shadowed steps, ducking under the yellow plastic ribbon still stretched across the porch. He'd have to get someone to take that down. He followed the porch around the side of the house. He felt something was missing, then noticed it was the wind chimes. Without them the place seemed unnaturally quiet, a final sign that life was gone. Despite the yellow ribbon, or maybe because of it, someone had stolen them. Typical, he thought.
He stood for a moment on the porch, looking out toward the dark sea, wondering why he had come here. He went down the back steps, following the narrow, winding path to the beach. Past the dunes, he walked to the water's edge and stood for a while, listening to the break of the surf and the sad sigh of the wind. He could see stars in great bunches at unimaginable distances. How small this world is, he thought. How puny we are. Poor frail, pitiful, foolish people, living in a universe that doesn't give a damn about us.
He stared into the darkness, and yelled, "Hey, you! Whoever you are. I'm here."
He heard nothing but wind and sea. After a while, he muttered, "To hell with you, too," feeling the bitterness in his voice.
He found himself swearing very softly, something he seldom did. The wind took his words and blew them along the beach. He thought of his son, and the mind of Robert Carlsberg, and people who steal from a dead man's house, and the stupid things that people do. This time he cursed, slowly and reverently, letting it come up from somewhere deep. He cursed, not anyone or anything in particular, but everything. He cursed passion and coldness alike, giving shape and form to the disgust he felt, and spewed it into the wind. Meanness was a bastard and Ignorance a bitch. His voice rose gradually until he was yelling his blasphemies, pouring out the dirtiness and frustration, outroaring the ocean. His curses were sucked up in the sound of the wind, and scattered along the sand.
He stopped, finally, feeling the wind cold on his face. His feet were cold, too. He looked down, and saw that a higher than usual surge had wet his feet to the ankles. His shoes were starting to sink into the sand. He slogged up to higher ground, looking down at his squelching shoes, feeling ridiculous. What an absolutely damn fool thing to do. He turned again toward the ocean, looking up at the stars, but this time he was smiling. He said, "Thanks, anyway, for noticing."
He walked back to his car, feeling somehow cleaner. In the morning, he would talk to Ross, get a few days off. God knows he needed it. There was unfinished business in Baltimore.
Terry and Kelly sat at the kitchen table, saying nothing, still a bit stunned. The half-filled mug of tea Kelly had made for Diane was there, getting cold. Terry's hand was curved around a cup of instant coffee. He hoped it wouldn't keep him awake, but suspected he wouldn't sleep anyway. Either that or he'd sleep despite everything.
Kelly reached across the table and took his hand. "Quite a night, huh?"
He nodded. "How was Diane? Think she'll be all right?"
"Not for awhile, she won't. But she's young. Alex took her home. He called her mother before he left."
He shook his head, sadly. "There aren't any winners, are there?"
She didn't answer directly, just squeezed his hand. Then she said, "Tomorrow I'll pick up Christy, and maybe Mrs. Campbell, and we'll go see her."
"What can you say to her?"
"Probably nothing that will help."
"Then –"
Kelly leaned across and shushed him with a light kiss. "It's not what you say, Terry. It's being there."
Later, Terry sat at the keyboard, his face eerie in the glow of the monitor.
He saw the shadowy figure ahead of him stop and look back. One arm came up, pointing at him. He heard someone yell something, then the blast of the gun. The next thing he was aware of was sand in his face, and an overwhelming desire to dig to China.
"Any problem with that?"
"Nope, not a one."
END
