Paulson was relentless and he was without mercy. He hounded Doyle. His questions were devoid of both subtlety and sympathy. He seemed determined to destroy Doyle, to the extent of making threats to do precisely that. And despite official assurances that the investigation was confidential, it became apparent that everyone and his dog were aware of what was taking place here. Rumors became fact, whispers became confident voices, blunt opinions became sharpened spears of distrust and dislike. These were carried on the wind, reaching the ears of Doyle’s wife and his loved ones. He almost lost them. He almost lost everything.
And all because of this man seated not two feet away from him.
Says Paulson, ‘Crappy night, huh?’
‘I think it just got worse,’ says Doyle.
Paulson adopts a pained expression. ‘Now why’d you have to go and say that? Didn’t we part on good terms last time we met? You brought me donuts, as I recall. You wished me a merry Christmas.’
‘I think your medication must have been too strong. You were imagining things. I don’t remember any of that.’
‘My medication? Oh, you mean for that bullet I took. The one that had your name on it.’
And there’s the thing. That’s what makes this relationship so complicated. Doyle wants to hate Paulson with a passion. He feels he’s entitled to that. But the best Christmas present he got last year was the one from Paulson. It was the gift of his life. How do you hate someone who does that for you? Why did Paulson have to go and mash up something that was so patently black and white into a muddy gray mess?
‘Look, Paulson, I owe you one. I admit it. You saved my life. There. Happy now?’
‘It helps. Your recognition of my gallant self-sacrifice certainly goes some way to assuaging my indignation here.’ He pauses. ‘But, of course, it fails to recognize what else I did for you.’
‘Which was?’
‘Where shall we start? Well, there was that confidential information I gave you at the time. Information which I think was crucial in getting you out of that jam you were in. Without that you’d probably still be afraid to enjoy the freedom of coming home to your lovely family here. And then there was the fact that I overlooked some distinctly dubious practices of yours while you were endeavoring to extract yourself from said jam. So, taking all of the above into consideration, I’d say I deserve a little leeway here. Wouldn’t you agree?’
‘You’ve got your leeway. It’s why I’m sitting in the car with you. Think yourself lucky I’m not jumping up and down on the hood right now. Look, Paulson, what you did for me, it’s much appreciated. Really. I’ll try to return the favor someday. But I can’t forget what came before that, and I’m sure it’s still fresh in your memory too. You came after me with all guns blazing, and you nearly succeeded in ruining my life. My wife sees me sitting out here with you, she’ll be down here choking you with your own tie. That’s the kind of love she has for you, Paulson. Think about that.’
‘You don’t think what happened last Christmas wipes any of that away?’
‘I think it complicates things, is what I think. What I would like to do is forget about the past and move on with my life. But certain people won’t let me do that. You included. What are you doing here at my home anyhow?’
‘Maybe I just thought I’d see how you are. Catch up on things.’
Doyle wags a finger at him. ‘Uh-uh. You’re here on business. You’re here as an IAB man. Don’t try pretending you’re not. At least have the decency to be honest about it.’
‘What, you think it’s always a question of one or the other? Is that how it is for you, Doyle? Do you stop being a cop when you take off your shield and your gun? Is it that easy for you?’
‘I’m saying that you have your shield with you now, Paulson. Even though it’s in your pocket, your IAB shield is the only thing I can see in front of me right now. I’d like to know why.’
Paulson pats his pockets, and for a second Doyle thinks he’s about to pull out his badge.
‘You got any cigarettes?’ says Paulson. ‘I think I ran out.’
‘I don’t smoke,’ says Doyle. ‘And if you light up in here, I’m getting out of the car.’
Paulson nods, goes quiet for a few seconds, then says, ‘I heard some things.’
‘Things? What kind of things?’
‘Things concerning you. You and a guy who runs a tattoo place.’
And now Doyle is interested. Also a little concerned. He was always of the conviction that Proust would not put in a complaint. Could he have gotten that so wrong?
‘Stanley Proust.’
‘Yeah, that’s him.’
‘What’s he say about me?’
‘He ain’t said nothing yet. Leastways, not to me. Other voices are whispering your name.’
‘I don’t suppose you wanna say who?’
‘Don’t matter. The point is, you’re making waves again. Disrupting the cosmic karma.’
‘So they summoned you to restore order to the universe?’
Paulson smiles. ‘Actually, no. I asked for this gig. I kinda feel fate has fashioned an unbreakable bond between us. We’re forever joined by elemental forces beyond our feeble understanding.’
‘That’s a disturbing thought, Paulson.’
Paulson shrugs. ‘Who are we to question the actions of the gods?’
Doyle pulls his what-the-fuck-are-you-talking-about face. ‘Those cigarettes of yours, they’re just tobacco, right? You mind coming back down to earth now?’
‘I’m trying to put you in the picture, Doyle. The bigger picture which you never seem to appreciate. You’re causing ructions, and there are some who don’t like ructions. They are severely ruction averse.’
‘I’m doing my job. Proust is a murderer. I’m gonna nail him for it. It’s as simple as that.’
Paulson emits a laugh which could cause small children to burst into tears. ‘It’s never simple, Doyle. You of all people should have learned that by now. Life is complex. It’s got hidden corners and trapdoors. The unwary need to be careful. Step on the wrong floorboard, and down you go.’
‘Yeah, right. Thanks for the warning. If it’s all the same to you, I’d like to go home now.’
Doyle reaches for the door handle, but Paulson puts a restraining hand on his arm.
‘Jesus Christ, Doyle. Do you have to be so obtuse? I’m trying to help you here.’
‘Help me or threaten me?’
‘You’re fucking paranoid, do you know that?’
‘Like the joke goes, just because I’m paranoid, it doesn’t mean they’re not out to get me. Plus, my experience is that there are definitely people out there who would love to see me taken down.’
‘Maybe. And maybe you’re handing them the ammunition. Proust is a time bomb, Doyle. And you’re the guy who’s started him ticking. When he goes off, he will shake the fabric of the space-time continuum. Time will be reversed. You and me, we’ll be back to square one. It will be as if last Christmas never happened. It will be just you and me in a tiny room somewhere, with only a tape recorder for company. I don’t want to see that happen. I don’t want to relive that.’
‘You been watching too much Star Trek. And that still sounds like a threat to me.’
Paulson sighs. Rolls his eyes. ‘Like I said, the problem with you is that you only ever see what you want to see. You got tunnel vision. You see IAB sitting next to you. The rat squad, right? The bureau whose only purpose in life is to make you miserable. What you don’t see is me. Paulson. The guy who saved your sorry ass. And when you look at Proust, you see a stone killer, right? You fail to see the man who holds your liberty in his fingers. And your ears ain’t so good, neither. Remember me saying how I asked for this assignment? You know why? Because if I hadn’t taken it, somebody else would have. And this other IAB detective would’ve marched straight into your squadroom. He would’ve talked to your lieutenant about what we already know, and then he would’ve marched you into an interview room to squeeze what else he
could out of you. And all this happening while your colleagues are watching and thinking and making up their own version of events. That’s what I’ve protected you from by coming here tonight. You can thank me when you’re ready.’
Doyle considers this. It’s all true. But what he can’t work out is why. A part of him wants to believe that Paulson really is a changed man. Another part wants to know what the catch is.
‘Okay, Paulson. Thank you. That what you want to hear?’
‘Yeah,’ says Paulson, nodding. ‘Yeah. That’s nice. I’m touched.’
There’s something in Paulson’s voice that tells Doyle he really means it. But it also feels to Doyle like he’s about to be beheaded and he’s forgiving his executioner. Handing him a bag of silver before the ax descends.
‘Until we meet again,’ says Doyle.
He says it jokingly, but Paulson appears to take it seriously. He looks almost. . sad.
‘Sure,’ says Paulson.
Doyle opens the door and steps out into the rain. As he walks around the car he hears the engine being fired up. But it’s followed by the soft hum of the driver’s window being lowered.
Says Paulson, ‘Everything’s connected, you know. The past, the present, the future. They’re all parts of the same river. Nothing exists in isolation. Sometimes we’re not even aware of it. But when that truth hits you, it can hit you hard. Take it easy, Doyle.’
Doyle stands there for a while. Watches as Paulson’s car pulls away. Tries to figure out what the hell he was getting at.
When he notices that the rain is trickling down the back of his neck, he shivers.
Home sweet home.
He walks in with the expectation that, finally, he can leave all his troubles out there in the rain. He can get out of these wet clothes, have a steaming-hot shower, a nice meal that isn’t fish, and then he can spend some quality time with his loving wife and doting daughter.
But those expectations are dashed when he sees the expression on the face of said loving wife. Because it’s not so loving at the moment. In fact, it’s downright livid.
‘What’s up?’ he asks.
‘What’s up?’ she echoes. ‘Your daughter is what’s up.’
It doesn’t escape his notice that this has suddenly become a one-parent family.
‘What’s she done this time?’
‘She did it again, Cal. She put some stuff from the stationery closet in her bag. Only this time she was seen doing it by another child, and he told the teacher about it.’
‘Wait a minute. Are you sure about this? Maybe there’s been a mistake.’
‘How can there be a mistake? She was seen. Caught red-handed. It’s the kind of open-and-shut case police officers can only dream of.’
Doyle feels something inside himself sinking. He doesn’t want to believe this. Not of his own daughter.
‘What happened? When the teacher found out?’
‘I got called in, Cal. I spent an hour in the principal’s office this afternoon, desperately trying to defend our family name. Trying to assure them there was no great domestic upheaval taking place in our home. No divorce or terminal illness — that kind of thing. It was humiliating, Cal. And I still don’t know what to do about it. What the hell has gotten into that child?’
And now Doyle’s mind is racing again. Searching for explanations. Looking for reasons. Wondering what mistakes they may have made in the upbringing of their daughter. He can feel his stress levels building again.
He hasn’t even taken his coat off yet, he’s still dripping rainwater onto the floor, and already he’s wishing for this night to be over.
Home sweet home.
Too easy.
That young detective. LeBlanc. Thinking he can play me. Asking those dumb questions about my business just to put me at my ease. Acting like he’s my BFF so he can get me to talk.
Well, he got me to talk, all right. Not what he was expecting to hear, though, was it?
He fell for it, the sucker. All those grunts and expressions of pain — he was totally taken in. Well, let me tell you, Detective The Blank, about how I don’t feel pain. About how the only one around here who’s gonna know pain is your pal Doyle.
Or is he your pal? That was a damn straight question you asked about whether Doyle tossed me through that door. A big gamble of yours. Supposing I’d said yes, Doyle did do that? What would you have done then? Taken me seriously or tried to shut me up? Whose side were you on, Detective?
More importantly, whose side are you on now?
Now that your head can’t shake out the picture of Doyle sitting in his car with that Marino woman, his hands and his lips all over her, what do you think of your partner? You still believe in him? You really think that anything he says can be trusted? You think he wouldn’t resort to beating me up, when it’s possible he’s done things a lot worse than that?
Stick around, oh blank one, while I finish creating my masterpiece. Because I haven’t finished with Doyle.
I’ve got a lot more work to do yet.
TWENTY-ONE
Steve Hamlyn tries to remember what sleep is like.
Proper sleep. The kind where you leave the physical world behind while you explore the surreal, your brain experimenting with new connections that give rise to all kinds of previously unimagined happenings — often absurd, sometimes even comical. The kind where you wake reinvigorated, ready to face all that life can throw at you.
Not this. Not the kind of sleep where you feel like you’re lying a mere fraction of an inch below wakefulness. Where the slightest sound — the rustle of a sheet, the heavy breath of your partner, the patter of rain, the rush of your own pulse — is enough to jolt you back into the room, drenched in sweat. Where the dreams, when you can reach them, are of the darkest kind imaginable, filled with violence and fear and gut-wrenching images. And where you know that, even when you escape the nightmares, your reality is little better. It is no longer something you welcome. You wake up crying silently, the tears streaming down your face. You feel the pressure in the center of your chest, as though your heart is ready to burst. And sometimes you wish it would burst, because sometimes you would gladly accept death as a way of ending this torment.
Steve turns to look at Nicole lying next to him. He can see only the back of her head, but her slow breathing suggests that she, at least, has found some peace. He doesn’t want to disturb her. He owes her that much. He owes her so much more, in fact. He has not been there for her. Not provided the shoulder she needs. At this very moment he can see that, but such moments of clarity have been rare lately, and this one will also quickly fade and die. His mind gets too crowded with other thoughts, other emotions. But he will make it up to her. Later. When things have been resolved. When Megan’s killer has been caught.
He wishes he could do something — anything — to help bring this to an end. He wishes he knew people. The kind of people who would undertake any job, no matter how illegal. If he knew people like that, who could guarantee that they would find Megan’s killer, then he would give them everything he owns. He would sell his house, his car, everything. He would even sell his soul. And he wouldn’t want them to administer any justice. He would do that himself.
Just find the sick fuck. I’ll take it from there.
But he doesn’t know people like that. All he has is the police, and he’s not convinced he can rely on them. They don’t seem to be getting anywhere with this. He calls them every day, several times on some days, and they tell him nothing. They’re following leads. Making inquiries. The usual bullshit. It all amounts to a heap of nothing. The killer is still out there, and they’re not going to catch him.
A tremor passes through Steve as he thinks this. What if they never catch him? What will I do then? How will I ever get my life back?
Anger wells up again. His chest tightens. His breathing accelerates. He wants to let out a roar of frustration. He feels so powerless. So fucking useless. His feelings toward Nicole change in a heartbeat. S
he transforms from someone he has wronged into someone who is too weak, too understanding and too accepting of this whole fucking mess their life has become. Where is her rage, her thirst for vengeance? How can she not be filled with fury at every waking moment? How can she even sleep?
He tosses back the covers and swings his feet onto the floor. He sits there for a minute, his face in his hands. Wondering how he can care so much while Nicole seems to care so little.
When he stands up and fetches his robe, he catches a glimpse of himself in the mirror. He sees an ugliness in his expression he has not seen before. It’s the face of a man who has had enough. A man who feels he has nothing left to lose. A man who could kill.
He goes downstairs. His fists are clenched, his muscles taut. He craves coffee, even though he knows it’s probably the worst thing he can take right now. A run. He needs to go for a run. Then a workout. Then. .
He sees it. There is no way he couldn’t. It practically jumps up and screams at him. It begs for him to approach and examine it.
A stark white rectangle. An envelope. There, on the floor. Just in front of the main door. As though it has been pushed underneath.
Steve glances at the wall clock. It’s only five in the morning. Somebody has visited them during the night and delivered this message. Somebody has sneaked here under cover of darkness to let the Hamlyns into a secret.
Steve feels his heart begin to pound. He doesn’t yet know what the note says, but he is certain it’s something of immense importance. Something about Megan that will turn everything upside down.
He steps closer to the front door. When his bare toes are just inches away from the letter, he stares down. It seems to stare back at him, daring him to touch it. Whispering to him that this is the answer to his prayers.
He bends down and picks up the envelope. Straightens up again as he stares at the printed words on the front:
FB2 document info
Document ID: fbd-e280e8-6d7d-4b4c-c783-54d0-6929-ea06ba
Document version: 1
Marked cd-3 Page 19
