by James Hunt
“Things always look good from far away,” Grant said.
“I saw you talking to Kelly,” Mocks said, nudging Grant’s arm with her elbow, that familiar grin stretched up the right side of her face. She bounced her eyebrows. “Thinking of spending the night?”
Grant shook his head. “Not my type.”
“Who cares? She’s hot. You’re single. And both of you need to get laid.” Mocks punched his arm. “I swear, sometimes I think you like doing things the hard way.”
“I just like to take my time,” Grant said.
“Well, clock is ticking, buddy. I mean, how long has it been? A year? Two years? You need to get your oil checked!” Mocks snorted as she clutched her pregnant belly with both hands.
“You keep that up, and you’ll go into labor right now,” Grant answered.
“Oh god, please, please, pleeeeease let that happen.” Mocks stared down at her massive belly. “Do you have any idea how much I want this kid out of me? I have to pee every three minutes. I can’t sleep. Everything I eat gives me heartburn, and Rick will not stop badgering me about my health and wellness.” She cocked her head to the right and then to the left as she mimicked her husband. “Did you take your prenatal vitamin? Did you read that baby book? Are you practicing your breathing?” She flung her head back, fake crying. “Just make it stop.”
Grant put his arm around her and pulled her close. “Rick is just being overprotective. I was the same way with Ellen.”
Mocks rested her head against Grant’s side. “After all of my pregnant rage, I’m surprised he hasn’t run off to Canada.”
“You’re lucky to have him.”
“I know.” Mocks lifted her head up, her voice softening as she nudged his arm. “You doing all right out there in the woods?”
Grant forced a smile. “I’m good.” And for the most part, it was true. But he decided to keep the sleepless nights and the nightmares that flared up to himself. He didn’t want to bring up bad memories. It would only worry her, and she had enough on her plate already. “So what do you have for me?”
“Already down to business, huh?” Mocks sighed, and then removed his arm as she turned back toward the house, swaying a bit from the added ballast around her midsection. “C’mon, Romeo.”
Grant trailed Mocks through the crowded kitchen and living room, stopping and smiling whenever someone made a comment, telling her how much they loved the house. Mocks nodded her appreciation, but when they made it to her office and closed the door, she stuck out her tongue and fake-gagged.
“God, I hate these things,” Mocks said, heading to her desk. “I didn’t want to do it, but Rick said we’d regret it if we didn’t.” She lowered her voice an octave to imitate her husband. “It’s part of the experience, babe.” She opened a drawer, shuffling the contents inside. “I don’t even know who half of those people are.” She plucked out a stack of folders and extended them to Grant. “Latest cold cases that were shelved last month.”
A brief rush of purpose flooded through Grant as he took hold of them. The cold cases that Mocks gave him were the one thread that still connected him to police work. He’d gotten his private investigator license last year, and as such, he could work as a consultant for a police department so long as the officer in charge of the division signed off on it.
“Thanks, Lieutenant,” Grant said, smiling when Mocks winced.
“God, I still haven’t gotten used to that.” Mocks sat down, the chair groaning from her weight as she leaned back, hands still rubbing her stomach. “After all of the shit I used to pull against Lieutenant Furst, I’m surprised karma hasn’t paid me a visit yet. I’m just waiting for another me to waltz into my department and set everything on fire.”
Grant opened the first file. “You’d be lucky to have her.”
“Save some of that charm for Miss Blond out there.” Mocks leaned forward, bouncing those light-brown eyebrows again. “You know she used to be a gymnast.”
But Grant only grunted as he scanned the first page of the case file on top. He was greeted with the picture of a young boy, age nine, black hair and brown eyes, abducted two years ago in northern Seattle. A body was never found, and the only people that cared anything about the investigation anymore were the parents. And now Grant.
“You know the chief spoke to me a few months ago after the Collet case,” Mocks said, swiveling to her left and right in her chair. “His offer still stands.”
“I’m not going to be an administrator, Mocks,” Grant said, flipping the page to examine the notes from the detective assigned to the case. “I don’t want to get stuck behind a desk.”
Mocks drummed her fingers on her own desk and nodded then sighed. “I’d be lying if I said you get used to it.” She lowered her eyes to her stomach. “But I suppose you have to roll with the change that life throws at you.”
“You’re going to be a great mom, Mocks.” Grant closed the file and then circled around the desk and knelt by her side. “The kid is so lucky to have you.”
Mocks sniffled, her eyes growing big the way they did whenever she was feeling vulnerable. It was an expression reserved for the people she trusted. The people she loved. “Rick keeps saying the same thing, but he has to say that kind of stuff, you know?”
Grant took her hands, that calmness rolling off him and onto her. “It’s true. You’re going to kick ass at motherhood.”
Mocks laughed and then wiped her eyes. “All right, enough sucking up. You’ll still get more cases next month.” She pushed herself out of the chair, Grant hovering close to make sure she didn’t fall. “So are you heading back tonight, or do you need a place to crash?”
“In the morning,” Grant answered. “I’ve got a hotel booked in the city, and I need to take care of a few things before I leave.”
“Things, huh?” Mocks asked, an accusing note to her voice.
“Nothing that’ll get me in trouble,” Grant answered. “Promise.” And it was true—it wouldn’t get him in trouble, but he kept the whole truth to himself. He didn’t want Mocks to think he was slipping backward. But it had been a long time since he’d been in the city. And there was one place that he needed to see before he left. It was a test for him, and he was hoping he passed.
“So there is no way that I can convince you to go home with the curvy, hot former gymnast for some meaningless sex?” Mocks asked.
“Maybe next time.”
“You know,” Mocks said as they walked out of the office together, “sometimes I think that I’m the guy in our relationship.”
“Me too.”
3
The red digital numbers on the clock blinked in the same rhythm as the jarring blast of the alarm. A hairy, liver-spotted hand reached from beneath the covers and blindly smacked the clock, taking three tries before the alarm clicked off. The huddled mass beneath the sheets groaned as the hand remained still on the nightstand.
After a moment, the pile of old bones stirred, and Barry Carr slowly removed his covers, sat up, and planted both feet on the carpet as he stretched, his body stiff and badgering him with the aches and pains associated with seven decades of living. He turned around to find his wife, Jane, still sound asleep beneath the covers. The woman could sleep through anything.
Joints popped and muscles creaked on Barry’s slow path toward the kitchen, where he powered on the coffee pot and headed to the front door to find the stack of newspapers waiting to be delivered.
The paperboy had assured him that he would get the papers delivered on time and to the correct houses, but Barry felt more comfortable doing it himself. Plus, it made him feel as if he was still working.
The properties that he and his wife ran practically took care of themselves nowadays, and he figured it was only a matter of time before they sold everything and moved to Florida or southern California, where they would live out the rest of their days in the warm sunshine. Part of him was thrilled with the idea, and another part hated it.
Barry heaved the stack
of papers brought in from the city into a wagon, and after draining his second cup of coffee and polishing off a bagel with a generous helping of cream cheese, he tugged the wagon down the dirt road of Oak Lane, where the bulk of their seven properties were located.
The houses were spread out along the road, their residents enjoying the privacy and quiet that their small town offered. Barry and Jane were lucky to have excellent tenants, though that was mainly due to Jane running the office and application process. She could sniff out bad eggs like a bloodhound. Something he was glad for back when his daughters were dating.
Barry heaved one of the papers onto Mr. Grant’s front porch, noting that his car was gone, which was unusual. He liked Grant. He was a man who understood that God gave people two ears and one mouth for a reason. Jane loved him too. But he suspected that it was because Grant reminded her of a young Cary Grant. Barry remembered when she used to say that about him.
The stack of papers rocked back and forth in the wagon, and the front right wheel slowed in mud as he approached the Dunnys’ house. Barry had his head down, grumbling to himself about putting some WD-40 on the axle again, and when he lifted his head, he stopped.
The Dunnys’ front door was wide open. Barry looked behind him, then up toward the road, then at the Dunnys’ SUV, which was still parked in the driveway, the back hatch open. He left the wagon in the road and shuffled up the drive toward the front door.
“Mary? Chuck?”
After no answer, Barry walked to the open door and peered inside. The hallway light was still on. “Anna? Bandit?” But when Barry took a step toward the living room, his old eyes still not adjusted to the dark inside, glass crunched beneath his shoe.
Barry lifted his foot, finding a broken picture frame. His knees popped as he reached for the frame, then he brushed off the shards of glass. The photo was comprised of the three Dunnys and their dog on the day they moved into the house. They were all smiling.
Barry blinked a few times, and when he looked into the living room, his jaw dropped. “My god.”
The living room had been torn apart. Furniture broken, pictures smashed, cushions torn. Barry stepped through the carnage, being mindful of his feet and to not trip over anything. The more he surveyed, the faster his heart beat.
“Mary! Chuck! Anna!” Barry screamed louder and passed through the kitchen, finding it in similar disarray. He brought his fingertips to his lips, his right hand still clutching the picture he’d picked up. He stepped from the kitchen and into the hallway, close to the back door.
Morning light shone through a small square window on the back door and onto a patch of hallway to his left. Barry squinted, noticing dark blotches. There was something violent about the stain, and fear gripped him as he forced his wobbling knees over to investigate.
Barry stopped a few inches shy of the stain, arms limp at his sides, and as the realization of what the stain was washed over him, the photo drifted from his fingertips and floated to the floor.
“Oh no,” Barry whispered, staring at the blotches of blood. For a moment, he couldn’t move, but then he took a step backward and, gaining momentum, broke into a shambling jog. He wheezed, and his joints ached as he left the wagon of newspapers in the road, his eyes widening on his retreat. He didn’t know what happened, but he knew the Dunnys were in trouble. And he needed the police.
The dreams didn’t come as often as they used to, but when they did rear their ugly heads, they made their presence known. It was always the same nightmare. And as Grant twitched in his sleep, reclined in the driver’s seat of his rusted Buick, which sat parked off to the side of a residential neighborhood, the past was thrust to the forefront of his subconscious. But he thought they might show up. After all, he was taking a trip down memory lane.
Grant was back on the beach, the waves lapping over the sand like black tar, staining anything it touched. He was alone, badge clipped onto his belt, and his service pistol in his hand. He was cold with sweat, and he took slow steps in the sand, but he left no footprints.
The night sky was cloudless and devoid of stars. Only the moon shone down, silhouetting a group of figures that huddled together. And even though Grant moved toward them slowly, he didn’t do it willingly.
A force tugged at his chest, yanking him along at a steady pace. And no matter how hard he tried to stop or turn around, that force continued to pull him toward the figures. He looked down at the pistol in his hand. He squeezed the handle so tightly that his knuckles were ghost white. He tried dropping the gun, but again that same inexplicable force wouldn’t allow him to let go.
The closer Grant came to the figures, the colder he became, and when he stood behind them, less than a few feet away, he couldn’t stop himself from shaking.
A dozen women had their backs to him, each of them with long strands of black hair that cascaded down their backs. They stood lazily in the sand, gently swaying back and forth like the palm fronds in the breeze. And then suddenly they all stopped, frozen in place. Grant shut his eyes, looking away, not wanting to see their faces.
But that same force that pulled him down the beach now tilted his head back toward the women and opened his eyes. The sight stole his breath.
Bullet holes covered their bodies, the gruesome wounds exposed to the night air, crusted blood around the clothes, their arms and faces smeared with dirt and grime and sweat. Their mouths hung open, and tears filled their eyes.
A woman in the middle lifted her hand, reaching toward Grant, crying. “Please. Help us.” She tried to take a step forward, but a restraint on her ankle kept her in place. The shackle appeared around both ankles, and it drew taut as she repeatedly tried to shuffle forward, continuing to cry for help.
The other women soon joined her, and the chorus of grief grew louder and louder, all of them reaching for Grant, begging for help, their cries growing more hysterical, more distraught.
But all Grant could do was shake his head. “I-I can’t.”
His words fell on deaf ears as the women clamored even louder, their grief turning to rage, and their pleas turning to curses.
“You did this! You did this!”
“No,” Grant said, the pistol still at his side.
Gunshots sounded, and the bullet holes that covered the women suddenly burst with blood, each of them collapsing as one after another fell into the sand. Grant screamed, still unable to move, forced to watch each of the women die until he was alone.
The blood from the dead collected together and then traveled around the tiny mounds of sand, following the grooves toward Grant, who watched in horror as the blood circled around his feet. And when he looked down to the pistol in his hand, he saw the smoke coming out of the barrel.
Grant shook his head. “No. I didn’t do this.” Tears fell as the blood drew closer, touching his heels and the tips of his toes. “I didn’t do this!”
And then the tide crept in, but the water had turned to blood, and it rose to Grant’s knees, then his waist. The force that brought him down the beach kept him still, and he started to hyperventilate.
When the blood water reached his lips, he drew one last breath and shut his mouth, and then he was completely submerged, his feet glued to the sand, the gun still in his hand, and his eyes locked on the bodies of the dead women.
His chest ached as his lungs convulsed for air. Bubbles streamed from his nose, floating upward, and he opened his mouth, his tongue bathing in the metallic taste of the blood. His eyes burned, and just when he thought he couldn’t hold his breath anymore, one of the women rose from the group. She walked over, eyes as dead as the rest of her, now unrestricted from the shackles.
The woman stopped when her nose rested less than an inch away from Grant. And then, as his lungs were about to burst and he was about to die, the woman reached down, grabbed Grant’s hand that held the pistol, brought it to his temple, and then pressed her finger over his on the trigger and squeezed.
Grant gasped, waking in sweat as he fumbled awkwardly in
the driver’s seat. He blinked, looking out through his windows to ensure he was alone, finding the residential neighborhood empty and still asleep as the first few rays of morning filtered through the windows.
Grant leaned back in his seat, shutting his eyes and getting control of his breathing. He wiped the sweat and sleep from his eyes and then raised his seat up and reached for the half-empty bottle of water in the center console. He drained it then chucked it to the floorboard, which was already littered with balled-up fast-food wrappers.
As the effects of the nightmares faded, Grant’s heart rate came down and his breathing calmed. He shifted, stiff and uncomfortable from spending the night in his car. He had lied to Mocks about the hotel, knowing that she’d offer her spare bedroom. But Grant wasn’t in the habit of asking for handouts. He wasn’t good at it, either.
Grant blinked away the fog of sleep, letting his vision clear as he set his eyes on the home two houses down on the left-hand side. It’d been four years since he’d seen it and even longer since he’d been inside. It had been his and Ellen’s house before she died. After she’d passed and he had moved out, Grant would come here at night and park right where he was now and imagine a life where his wife was still alive.
Grant envisioned their kids playing in the yard and Ellen sitting on the front porch swing he’d set up for her. He saw the family pictures taken during the holidays, and the kids going to and from school. But after all the years he spent fantasizing about an impossible future, he’d never yearned for anything more than what his grief allowed him.
And now Ellen was nothing more than a faded picture in his mind, a page of his history that he no longer turned to anymore, and because of that neglect, those pages had turned brittle, breaking apart from the weather of time.
