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  “I should go to the bathroom,” I add, wrapping a sheet around myself as I get to my feet. “I'll be right back.”

  “So we're married,” he calls after me as I leave the room, “and we've got our own house now, and we've even got spare rooms. What's next in the narrative of a normal couple?”

  “Joint-owned salad bowls?”

  “You know what I mean. I was just thinking maybe we could think about growing our family a little.”

  “You want a pet?”

  “Alex...”

  “We've barely settled in,” I reply, passing my old childhood bedroom and heading through to the bathroom. After pulling the cord to switch the light on, I step inside and head over to the sink. “Let's just get on our feet before we start thinking about anything else,” I continue, although I'm not sure if he can hear me now since I'm all the way over on the other side of the house. “Let's just be for a while. There's no hurry.”

  He doesn't reply, and a moment later I hear the bed squeaking slightly. I guess he's entertaining himself by bouncing around again, and I can't help smiling as I start washing my hands. I definitely need to pack that blow-up bed away so that Brad can't find it, because so far he seems way too enthusiastic about the goddamn thing. Sometimes I think that if he had his way, we'd decorate the house like it was some kind of student place, with posters on the wall and random weird stuff in every room. Fortunately he's told me to just go ahead and pick out stuff, and I've already figured out what we're going to get when we can afford to splash out a little.

  We're going to have a normal house, like normal people. And then maybe we can think about having kids, once everything else is settled.

  I want kids more than anything in the world, but the timing...

  Behind me, the door creaks slightly.

  “Occupied,” I say with a smile, as I lean down and start washing my face.

  Behind me there's another creak, this time from one of the floorboards.

  “Don't you know better than to walk in on a lady when she's performing her ablutions?” I ask as I wipe a flannel across my forehead. There's cleanser all over my face now, so I don't even dare open my eyes as I stand up and continue to work on my pores. “I'll be out in a few minutes.”

  He doesn't reply, so I focus on washing my face. I'd have preferred to have been alone in here, but I guess I can handle a little company so long as he doesn't start using the toilet. Then again, knowing Brad's sense of humor, that's exactly the kind of thing he'd do. I'll probably hear water tinkling into the bowl in a couple of seconds.

  With the cleanser still on my face, I keep my eyes closed as I wait for the three minutes to pass so I can wash it all off again. While I do that, I take a cotton bud from the shelf and start cleaning my ears.

  “I need to keep some mystery, you know,” I continue. “Don't you think -”

  Suddenly I feel him place a hand on my left shoulder, from behind.

  “There is no way I can go again tonight,” I tell him. “Doing it on that blow-up bed was exhausting for me too, you know. I think I used muscles I didn't even know I had.”

  I dig the cotton bud a little deeper into my ear.

  A moment later, he puts his other hand on my right shoulder.

  “Now you're just being creepy,” I point out.

  I lean down and start washing the cleanser off my face, but Brad keeps his hands on my shoulders. Finally I open my eyes and look down into the sink's cloudy water, and at that moment I realize that his hands feel icy cold. Brad's hands are always nice and warm, but right now it feels as if he's been keeping them in the icebox.

  “This bed is so bouncy!” he shouts out suddenly, from the bedroom.

  Gasping, I turn and look back across the bathroom. At that moment, the hands stop touching my shoulders and I find myself staring toward the open door, but there's absolutely no sign of anyone else here in the room with me. I wait a moment, as my heart pounds in my chest, and then I realize I can hear Brad still bouncing around on the bed. He's all the way across the landing, all the way on the other side of the house. He must have been there the whole time.

  “How about we give it one more try on this thing?” he continues. “I think you could grow to like it, Alex. Maybe we just used the wrong position the first time.”

  I look around the bathroom, but there's still nobody else here. Besides, there's nobody else who could be here, although the sensation of ice-cold hands on my shoulders was so clear and so distinct. I can still feel exactly where they touched me. Finally I hurry back out onto the landing and over to the bedroom door, where I stop and see that Brad is still bouncing on the bed.

  “Were you just in the bathroom?” I ask.

  He turns to me. “Huh? No, I was right here doing this.”

  He bounces again.

  “Why?” he adds innocently.

  “I -”

  For a moment, I consider asking if he's sure, but then I realize that'd be a dumb question. Besides, now that I'm back through here, I'm starting to doubt whether I really felt hands on my shoulders at all. Cold soap could just have dribbled down my neck, and maybe I'm a little highly-strung right now so I simply let my imagination run wild.

  “Babe?” Brad continues. “Are you okay?”

  “I'm fine,” I reply, forcing a smile. “I'll just go finish up.”

  With that, I turn and head back to the bathroom. I can't deny that there's a niggling sense of concern in the pit of my stomach, but I quickly tell myself to grow the hell up and stop being some little scaredy-cat. It's only natural that my mind tried to play a trick on me, and I told myself before we moved here that I should be ready for precisely this kind of thing. Still, the weirdness kind of crept up on me when I had my guard down, and as I reach the sink again I make a mental note to be a little more prepared and to stay a little more rational.

  Leaning down, I force myself to finish washing my face properly, rather than rushing to get out of the bathroom. And even though I spend several more minutes getting myself clean, I don't feel hands on my shoulders again, and I start to realize that the whole thing was just a brief, jittery brain-fart.

  “Are you gonna be much longer in there?” Brad calls out suddenly. “I need to use the can!”

  “Just give me two more minutes,” I reply, before grabbing a towel and starting to pat my face dry. As I do so, I half expect to feel hands on my shoulders again, but there's nothing. At the same time, I'm starting to think that the sensation was familiar, as if I've felt icy hands like that before.

  Turning slowly, I look out onto the landing and toward the door that leads into the master bedroom. I remember the touch of those cold hands. I don't know when, or how, but I've definitely felt them before. I think it might have been a long, long time ago.

  Chapter Sixteen

  Sheriff Michael Blaine

  20 years ago

  Mo Garvey's rotting arm reaches out toward my face, as she leans closer and squirming maggots spill out from her eye-sockets. As soon as she starts tightening her grip around my throat, the flesh on her forearm starts ripping open, revealing a sloughing mess of meat and bone.

  “Stop!” I gasp, suddenly turning and finding that I'm back in my office.

  Looking around, I realize I must have fallen asleep at my desk. My heart is pounding and I can't help watching the shadows, worried that I might spot a shape twisting in the darkness. Even when my mind starts to calm, my body is still in panic-mode and I have to lean back in my chair. I know that whole experience was just a nightmare, but it still takes a moment longer before I even notice that my phone is ringing.

  “Sheriff Blaine,” I say drowsily as I answer. “What've you got for me?”

  ***

  “Get away!” I yell, hurrying along the dark street, heading toward the small crowd that's gathered on the corner. “Keep back!”

  “We've got a dead one,” Harry says, ashen-faced as he turns to me. “And boss -”

  “Let me see!”

  Slipp
ing past him, I stop as I see that Tom Milford is in the process of draping a coat over what looks like the body of a middle-aged man. Since receiving the call a few minutes ago that there'd been a traffic accident in town, I've run all the way over here. It's 3am and the stop sign is flashing high above the scene.

  “It would have been almost instant,” Tom says, looking up at me. “He stepped out into the middle of the street. The impact tossed him about twenty meters. Looks like he hit his head real bad.”

  “Who is it?” I ask.

  “Nobody I've ever seen before. From the clothes, I'd say it's a drifter, someone who was living rough. You know the type.”

  Stepping around him, I see that he's right. The man's clothes are tattered and torn, and he's wearing two mis-matching shoes. I've seen people like this before, drifters who occasionally pass through town and go dumpster-diving along the way. They never stick around for long, not when there's better pickings in Dedston or Sobolton a little further up the line. Usually I just hurry the drifters on when I see them and keep them from causing trouble, but this poor wretch seems to have managed to get hit by one of the few cars on the road at this time in the morning. The odds of that happening are so low, I can't help wondering whether this was a suicide.

  Glancing over at the nearest car, I see Matt Beamish sitting in the driver's seat. He's a good guy, and I know he won't have been drinking and driving. He's staring at the dead guy, but for the most part he seems to be holding himself together. I should go and talk to him, and start figuring out how this mess happened.

  “There's something else,” Tom Milford says, lifting the edge of the drifter's coat. Using a pair of tweezers, he takes out a stained piece of white fabric. “I'll need to get it back to the lab for analysis, but I recognize the label. I've got a horrible feeling, Michael, that this might be the missing section of Mo Garvey's underwear.”

  Stepping closer, I see that the fabric is covered in dry blood.

  “It was in his pocket?” I ask.

  “We were checking to see if he was carrying identification,” he explains. “He seems not to have been, but that's when we found this particular piece of fabric. Killers do that sometimes, don't they? They keep trophies of their victims. I'm no psychologist, but maybe that's what this is supposed to be. A sick, disgusting trophy.” He pauses, and there's a hint of desperation in his eyes, as if he's waiting for me to tell him that he's right. “Don't you think it's a trophy, Michael?”

  “So what does it mean?” Harry asks, standing next to me. “Hey, if he had that in his pocket, does it mean this drifter was the one who killed Mo Garvey?”

  I open my mouth to reply, but something about this situation feels awfully convenient. In fact, as I look around at the others, I can't help feeling as if I'm in a scene that was deliberately set up. Everybody's waiting for me to agree with them, for me to tell them the case has been miraculously solved. Even Matt Beamish, the man who supposedly hit the guy and killed him, seems completely focused on watching and waiting for my reaction.

  “Seems a little easy,” Harry adds, echoing my thoughts. “I mean, it's like he's presented himself to us on a silver platter.”

  “Like I said,” Tom Milford continues, “I need to run some tests before I can be sure. But if you ask me, the blood on this torn section of panties is going to turn out to belong to Mo. And if that's the case, then I think we might just have our killer.” He covers the dead man's face, before turning to look up at me. “Case closed.”

  “Run those tests,” I reply cautiously. “I'm not assuming anything until we've got proof.”

  ***

  “What did I tell you?”

  Startled by the familiar voice, I turn away from the filing cabinet and see that Mayor Lenny Johnson has arrived, his bulky frame almost filling the doorway completely.

  “A drifter, huh?” he continues, stepping into my office. He's grinning, as if he's pleased by the latest turn of developments. Or maybe smug is a better word. “Well, I've gotta admit, even though I had my money on that being the case, I didn't think we'd have much hope of actually nailing the guy. I'm surprised he didn't leave town already, but I guess we'll never know what was going through the pervert's head. Has Doc Milford formally identified the blood on the pair of panties yet?”

  Staring at him, I can't shake a creeping sense that he seems very pleased with himself.

  “Not yet,” I reply cautiously.

  “Still, only a matter of time.” He comes over and pats me on the shoulder. “This must be an immense relief for you, Michael. The son of a bitch who killed poor little Mo Garvey is out of the picture. It would've been better if he'd been taken alive, instead of getting run over by Matt Beamish, but we can't have everything. I assume Matt won't be facing charges, will he? I mean, from what I've heard, it sounds almost like the murderer threw himself in front of the car.”

  “I'm still putting the details of the accident together.”

  “Of course, of course.”

  “There are procedures to follow.”

  He nods.

  “Nothing's decided yet,” I add.

  “Wouldn't have it any other way.”

  “We don't even know that it's the killer,” I point out, and at that moment I see a flicker of irritation in his eyes. “People shouldn't jump to conclusions just yet.”

  “Of course not,” he replies with a grin. “Hell, maybe it'll turn out that this drifter didn't kill Mo, although it doesn't take a genius to see which way the odds are stacked right now. Still, there's a set of rules to follow, and we need to follow them. How long will it take before you can confirm that this guy's the killer? Two, three days? Longer?”

  “I'm not sure,” I tell him. “Right now, the investigation is still open.”

  “I wouldn't have it any other way,” he continues. “That's why I have full faith in you. Hell, it's why this whole town believes in you, Michael.” He pats me on the shoulder again, and I can't shake the feeling that he's spewing out a bunch of prepared lines. “You make people feel safe, and this whole horrible incident is only going to reinforce that idea. Right now, you need to focus on getting all the paperwork complete so that eventually we can draw a line under what happened to that poor girl. This town needs to stop grieving, and start healing.”

  “Matt said the guy just appeared in the middle of the road,” I point out.

  He nods. “Yeah, I know.”

  “You've spoken to him?”

  “Of course. Matt's a good buddy of mine, going back a long way.”

  “He said the guy seemed to lurch out from nowhere,” I continue. “He said he didn't have a chance to stop in time.”

  “Must've been quite a shock for him, huh?”

  “I didn't see any tire marks.”

  “On the dead guy's face?” he asks with a grin and a chuckle, patting my shoulder yet again. “Pity.”

  “On the road, Lenny,” I continue. “Even if Matt didn't have time to stop, I'd have thought he'd at least slam the brakes on once he'd hit the guy, but there are no tire marks. It's as if he slowed leisurely and parked up.”

  “So?”

  “So doesn't that strike you as odd?”

  “Not if he'd just hit Mo Garvey's killer. He was probably feeling pretty pleased with himself for doing the town a favor.”

  “But he didn't know who he'd hit, did he? Not at that point.”

  I wait for a reply, but now Lenny is eyeing me with a hint of suspicion. I think I've finally managed to break through his spiel.

  “I'm not saying I suspect Matt of doing anything wrong,” I continue, “but there are a few details of this situation that I'd like to clear up with him. I'm going to go and talk to him right now.”

  “He's gone home for the night.”

  “Then I'll -”

  “Best leave it 'til morning,” he adds, placing a hand on my shoulder.

  “I really think I need to talk to him tonight.”

  “It's four in the morning,” he points out. “
Let the man rest.”

  “I should -”

  “I've got some of my other buddies with him,” he continues, giving my shoulder a bearish squeeze. “They're taking care of Matt, and I'm sure he'll be ready for a good chat with you after the sun comes up. You need to focus on your paperwork for a while, maybe catch some sleep, and come up smiling some time tomorrow. You're no use to anyone in your current state, Mikey. No use at all.”

  Before I can reply, I realize that he seems to be issuing a mild threat. At the same time, I'm damn well not going to sign off on anything I don't fully believe. I'm being steered toward one particular conclusion, and my gut instinct is to start fighting in the opposite direction.

  “It just takes time,” I add finally, deciding to play my cards close to my chest. “That's all. Hopefully we've been lucky, hopefully by some bizarre set of circumstances we've ended up catching this guy and he's out of the way. Hopefully we can find some closure for the family, and for the town. There are just some procedures I need to go through first. After all, the most important thing is that we get the right guy. Dead or alive.”

  “Wouldn't have it any other way, my friend,” he says with a forced smile, taking a step back. “That's why you're the right guy for the job. You stop the rest of us running off half-cocked. Even when people were starting to doubt you earlier today, I had your back. I told 'em to keep the faith.” Checking his watch, he sighs. “It's gone four in the goddamn morning. I wasn't built for being up this late, at least not sober. How about we call it a night and take a rain-check, yeah? Tomorrow we'll meet up again and see how things are going, maybe over a few beers. Can I give you a ride home?”

  “I'm going to do a few more things here,” I tell him, “but thanks for the offer.”

  “Come on. There's room in my car for two.”

  “I really have to stay.”

  “You do, huh?”

  “Yeah. I do.”

  I wait for him to reply, but for a moment he seems a little annoyed by my answer.

  “No problem,” he says finally. He hesitates, before turning and heading back toward the door. “You're a good man, Michael Blaine. The best. We're lucky to have you.”