by Alex Barclay
I’m not sure. Jesus. I’ve been that in love … haven’t I? Maybe not. I don’t know.
Sylvie was still talking. ‘Your head is the same logical place it always has been and your heart is like something from the greatest romantic movie of all time – the type of movie you never got, where you’re watching and you’re like “There’s no way anyone would do that or say that or feel that strongly or …” And that logical mind of yours becomes this battleground, because, when I’m not with him, I think: what the hell am I doing? And when I’m with him, or talking to him, or hearing from him, the whole world is right.’
It can’t be!
‘Is it worth it?’ said Ren. ‘Really?’
‘Yes,’ said Sylvie. ‘Can you believe that? I don’t even think I can …’
Ren smiled. ‘I’m sorry, Sylvie – I haven’t been very kind to you. It’s—’
‘I understand, OK? I do.’
‘But, maybe you’re right – maybe I’ve never had that kind of loss-of-logic love before. Well, not with someone unattainable.’ But, then, I’ve never had logic to begin with. And, shit – that was terrible: unattainable? Maybe Gary is attainable. What do I know?
‘Just – I think you deserve more,’ said Ren. ‘Every woman does.’ His wife does too.
‘I never thought getting this little from a man could feel like so much,’ said Sylvie.
Oh dear God … you said that out loud. To me. And I hope you say it out loud to yourself later and hear how depressing it is.
I’m such a judgey asshole.
Ren hovered in front of Sylvie, then reached out, touched her forearm. ‘I’m sorry for being … not exactly friendly. Please … just look after yourself.’ Because whatever happens, I think Gary will be just fine.
‘Thanks,’ said Sylvie. ‘You too.’ She paused. ‘I’m so sorry about everything that happened to you, Ren. I … can’t imagine. I think you’re very strong.’
‘God,’ said Ren, ‘I’m so not. But, thank you.’
They hugged.
Well, well, well …
76
Jimmy Lyle had left Tate behind, left DEAD TO ME in his wake. He felt free, untethered. He was who he was meant to be. He had a stolen laptop, a burner phone, he had a new wig, he wore clothes that were two sizes too big, clothes, again, that were for women.
He sat back on the motel bed with his laptop. He checked his messages. The only name he wanted to see now was the newest one: BoyUndr15. He had screen-grabbed some of their earliest exchanges. Every time he read them, he got hard.
The first one had blown his mind.
Rapid01: hw undr15 r u??
BoyUndr15: :-) im xctly 15 …
Rapid01: ok good … y ‘undr’??
BoyUndr15: undr
…
…
… watr
Jimmy’s heart pounded now, as it had pounded then.
Rapid01: y undr watr?
BoyUndr15: cuz …
Rapid01: cuz …??
BoyUndr15: its where i wnt 2 go
Rapid01: y??
BoyUndr15: its where i wnt 2 go … in the end
Instantly hard. It was the same now. He started pulling at his dick. He remembered how desperately he needed to know what the boy meant, was it what he hoped.
Rapid01: the end of??
The wait had almost killed him. He felt a head rush, like white noise. He had been rooted to the spot, his eyes transfixed by the screen. Then the words appeared.
BoyUndr15: cuz … life sux
BoyUndr15 had signed off, then, and Jimmy had nearly passed out. He imagined the pain of never hearing from him again. But BoyUndr15 came back, and was back almost every day since.
The last message Jimmy had sent BoyUndr15 was two hours before he checked into the motel. He described exactly what he wanted to do to him. He ended it with:
i wnt to take the pain away
let me take ur pain away
His screen lit up with a reply.
BoyUndr15: OK
Jimmy’s heart was bursting.
One hour later, BoyUndr15 sent another message.
Jimmy could barely breathe. He pushed his dress up around his waist, ran to the tall narrow mirror against the wall, trying to pull down his pantyhose as he went. But he fell to his knees first, yanked them down his thighs, scratching his thighs as he did it. He pulled the belt from his dress, wrapped it tight around his neck.
He had never gotten so hard, so quickly … all because of words and the beautiful images they conjured. He stared at the words as they glowed in the mirror’s reflection. He was glowing too, his eyes fixed on the dwindling o’s. The smartness of this boy. He was only fifteen, but he was like … he was … he was … he was his soulmate.
BoyUndr15, I love you.
I love you to death.
To death.
Not back again.
77
Ren sat in the office of Dr Leonard Lone, watching how the icy gray sky over Denver was draining the life from the painting that hung behind his desk.
Aren’t there guidelines for psychiatrist office art? Couldn’t the wrong image push someone over the edge? Especially when forced to view it while trying to avoid eye contact?
‘Why did you move your desk?’ said Ren.
‘I wanted to have the window to my right, to have the light come in that way,’ said Lone.
But I loved staring out the window behind you. I don’t like your painting. You’re waiting for me to answer your question – I know.
‘It did feel good, yes,’ said Ren.
‘Because you’re used to Gary berating you at the end of an investigation …’
‘Going nuts,’ said Ren. She smiled. ‘Berating sounds very … civilized.’
‘Gary is civilized …’
‘No, you’re right – he is,’ said Ren. ‘I was kidding.’
‘Well, good job on all this,’ said Lone. ‘You didn’t go off on your own, you followed the rules.’
Griiiim.
Lone sat back, opened his arms in a generous gesture. ‘This was a case you didn’t take any risks on.’
‘Correct,’ said Ren. Correct.
Ren sat down that evening with her laptop and a glass of wine.
Still not getting Alice Veir helping John. All her talk of why she studied the law, how she wanted to make a difference. Is that it? Do we all just aspire to be one thing, the best person who ever lived, when really, as we move through life, we realize that all we can be is the best flawed human being under the circumstances. Alice Veir was so convincing in her belief in justice. Why would she throw it all away? Was there something in particular about Anthony Boyd Lorden? Was there a personal connection? Did she know him? Weren’t they around the same age?
Ren’s heart started to pound.
Her thoughts shifted to Alice Veir’s words about Anthony: ‘I’ve had my life. What has he had?’
I’ve had my life?
She’s forty-five years old. Isn’t she still having her life?
She thought about Alice Veir. She thought about Patti Ellis.
How could John Veir have gotten access to Patti Ellis’ medication? Oh my God. It wasn’t have gotten Patti Ellis’ fentanyl: it was Alice Veir’s. Alice Veir is sick. She must be terminal.
Ren pictured Anthony Boyd Lorden in the interrogation video: young, handsome, clean-cut. Then she pictured the police sketch in Emma Ridley’s file.
That’s why it was familiar: the photo of John Veir in the living room. At thirty years old, he looked a lot like Lorden at seventeen. And it was a pitch-dark night. Flawed eyewitness testimony.
‘You’d want a pretty tight relationship with a sibling – or anyone, for that matter – to be able to call them up and say ‘I killed my child, what do I do next?’
But it would be a whole hell of a lot easier if they owed you.
Kevin Dunne’s death was an accident.
And it was Alice Veir who hit him that night. Maybe
she was drinking and she couldn’t throw her whole future away, everything she had worked for. She called her brother for help. And he came. And they let an innocent man go to jail.
Then Alice’s conscience kicks in when she knows she’s going to die. She wants to carry out an act of repentance.
But John calls her when he discovers what Caleb has done. He tells her his plan, reminds her of how he helped her out of a predicament when she was in law school – how his actions meant that she got a second chance too.
She tells him that was a very different situation. She tells him that was an accident. But he reminds her that yes, it was an accident that she knocked down and killed a boy called Kevin Dunne, but it was no accident to drive drunk or recklessly or whatever she did. It was no accident when she called her big brother to help her move the body, and to lie for her. It was no accident that she allowed a man to go to jail for twenty-one years until she found out she was sick, and wanted to do something good to redeem herself, wanted to set him free, so she could set herself free.
She thinks that he is making a fair point.
Ren called Emma Ridley and gave her the new information.
That night, Ren sat on her bed, holding her cell in her palm as if it was a fortune teller fish that would curl up at the edges and reveal her future. She started scrolling through her contacts.
She stopped at Joe Lucchesi.
Be brave.
She called his number.
He picked up on the second ring. ‘Hey!’
He sounds cheery. I wonder wh—
‘It’s great to hear your voice,’ said Joe. ‘Really great.’
Ren felt her heart jump. Oh, no. No. ‘Hey. It’s good to hear yours. How are you doing?’
‘Good, good,’ said Joe. ‘Are you home?’
Home … ‘Yes.’
‘How did it all go?’
Ren filled him in on the case.
‘Good for you guys,’ said Joe.
‘Sorry I haven’t been in touch in a while.’ I am falling for you, Joe Lucchesi. And it’s fucking unbearable.
‘It’s OK – you’ve been busy.’
‘Thanks,’ said Ren. ‘Anyway – I better go. I’ve got some things to do …’
Silence.
Ugh.
‘Well, I better let you get back to it,’ said Joe.
‘Thanks,’ said Ren. ‘Look after yourself. And … thanks for Denver. I had a great time.’
But I realize now: it isn’t what I thought it was. You’re not falling for him. You’re staggering out of some hellhole looking for purchase. Someone familiar. It felt intense because we were drunk and because we’re broken. I was confusing intensity with the need to attach to something.
‘Me too,’ said Joe. ‘I was thinking maybe—’
His voice was distant. She was already ending the call.
78
Jimmy Lyle walked the aisles of the department store. He stopped at swimwear. His heart pounded. He ran his fingers along the line of swim trunks on their little hangers. They weren’t organized by size, and it flooded him with anger.
He was looking for tags with the letter S. That was the size that interested him. He chose a plain yellow pair. He chose them because BoyUndr15 said that was his favorite color. And he chose them because of the days and nights he spent jerking off to the drowning boys and girls of Surf Rescue. And the lead actress in her yellow swimsuit. He loved her.
But he knew she didn’t care about him. She didn’t reply to any of his letters. The last one, the one he tried to hand-deliver, was taken from him before he even got a chance to get near her trailer. It didn’t matter how he explained it to the security guard, it didn’t matter how much he sobbed. He still remembered the cruelty of that man: ‘Dude, if she hasn’t replied to the first one hundred and twenty-seven letters, why do you think she’s going to reply to this one? What’s so special about one twenty-eight?’
‘Because there’s a gift in there with it,’ Jimmy had said. ‘It’s a package, can’t you see?’ And he knew that if she just watched the video that she would get it, that she would know. She would see how much she meant to him, she would see how everything he did was done while the show was reflected in his mirror. When she watched, she would be watching him watching her watching him.
His dick was hard by the time he reached the register. He smiled at the woman behind the counter, kept his eyes on hers.
‘You going on vacation?’ said the sales assistant.
Jimmy nodded. ‘Yes.’ His heart swelled. ‘And it’s my birthday today.’
‘If you show me some ID, I can give you our ten per cent birthday discount.’
It was Jimmy’s birthday. Just not the birthday that was on his fake ID.
He handed her cash. ‘Don’t worry – next time.’
She laughed. ‘You’ll only have to wait a whole year.’
He laughed, but he didn’t like anything about her.
‘So you’re going on vacation?’ she said.
With my boy. BoyUndr15.
Four hours later, Jimmy Lyle was standing by the pool, lost in the warm, shimmering water. Indoor, heated pool: BoyUndr15 had rich parents who didn’t give a shit about him. They would come home from their European vacation to find him. Jimmy expected that this was BoyUndr15’s plan. Jimmy knew what it was like to hate your parents, to want to punish them. He just wished he was as brave.
Across from him was a wall of glass that looked out on to snow-covered mountains. It was beautiful. But not as beautiful as what was about to unfold.
Jimmy’s hand was on his buckle. His swim trunks were under his jeans. He knew what was inside them was always bigger than people expected.
He had spent a lot of money at the store – the yellow shorts, the beach ball, the towels, the oil, the condoms. He unbuttoned his shirt, unbuckled his pants, slid them down. He had his father’s skinny limbs. He hated them. But that didn’t matter now. He was here, feet from this swimming pool, moments from his wildest dreams, hard and ready. He unpacked his camera, set up the tripod.
He thought of his father. He felt a spike of anger in his chest.
Nothing will spoil this. Nothing will spoil this.
He had run through what would happen when they met: he would greet the boy with a smile, he would make him feel relaxed. His heart was bursting.
His phone vibrated with a text.
BoyUndr15: Opn gray door! Cmng thru the shower room … :-)
There was a knock, and Jimmy walked over to the door, his heart pounding, his legs weak. He opened it. In the half-darkness, he could make out two figures standing there. One pushed past him, stood to his left. The other stood in front of him:
‘Jimmy Lyle? I’m BoyUndr15.’
It was a woman.
Jimmy Lyle stared. ‘But—’
She was holding up a badge. ‘Or Special Agent Ren Bryce …’ She smiled. ‘Happy Fuuucking Birthday, Jimmy.’
79
Gary was pacing up and down his Safe Streets office. Ren was standing, motionless, eyes on the floor.
‘Jesus Christ, Ren,’ said Gary. ‘What the fuck were you thinking?’
I was thinking if nobody knows what I’m doing, nobody can get hurt. I am the only person who could get hurt, and that’s fine with me. I can accept putting myself at risk.
‘I was thinking: there is a psychopath out there,’ said Ren. I’m not good with psychopaths being out there. Look what happens. Look what happens: people fucking die. People you love fucking die. They die.
‘I was thinking,’ said Ren, ‘that I couldn’t let that be, and that if I was the only one who knew, then it wouldn’t be screwed up. The first thing got screwed up because too many people knew.’
‘This is vigilante shit,’ said Gary.
‘But I had Ruddock!’ said Ren. ‘I brought Ruddock.’
‘At the eleventh hour!’ said Gary. ‘You manipulated him—’
‘Oh, come on,’ said Ren, ‘Ruddock’s a big boy. I went thro
ugh all the evidence. It was—’ Don’t say watertight. ‘… watertight’.
‘Are you fucking laughing, Ren?’ said Gary.
‘No! That was—’
‘What the?’ said Gary. ‘I can’t believe – though I should! – that despite everything, you’re still doing your own thing. Ren Solo. What is it going to take? What the fuck is it going to—’
‘Stop!’ said Ren. ‘Stop!’ Don’t. Don’t. Don’t. Do not say a word.
‘I’m sorry, Ren, but you’re going to have to listen to this. You really are. Everett is dead. Robbie is dead. Ben—’
‘Stop!’ She was screaming. ‘Stop!’
Gary grabbed her by the arms, squeezed them tight. ‘Ren, look at me. Look at me.’
‘No!’ She shook her head. Gary shook her until she locked eyes with him.
I can’t. I can’t. She was sobbing. ‘Don’t say it – don’t. Don’t.’
‘Don’t say what?’ said Gary.
I want to die. I want to die. ‘Don’t say that if I hadn’t gone off on my own that they would still be alive. I can’t bear it. Don’t.’
‘What the—’ He stared at her. Tears poured down her face.
Don’t. Don’t. Don’t.
Gary released his grip, pulled her into his arms. Her body was wracked with sobs. He held her tight.
‘That was the exact opposite of what I was going to say,’ said Gary. ‘Jesus, Ren – the exact opposite.’
I’m in Gary Dettling’s arms. Jesus.
She pulled back. She could feel strands of her hair hot and damp against her cheeks. She checked his shirt for mascara.
My hands are on his chest.
She felt his hands on her face. She looked up at him.
‘I was trying to say to you: it’s not your fault,’ said Gary. ‘None of it was your fault. It would have happened another day if it hadn’t happened that day. It would have happened another way. He could have taken more of us with him. This wasn’t about you or something you did or didn’t do. This was about Joe Lucchesi, it was about me. I shouldn’t be here, Ren. I shouldn’t be alive. I think about it all the time: I shouldn’t be here, but I am. And I am, thanks to you. And Joe Lucchesi is here, because of you. But if you listen only to one thing, listen to this: it was not your fault. And do not spend the rest of your life trying to fix it. Do not die trying to fix this. Do not die on me, Ren.’
