Page 12

We leave before dawn. May apparently doesn’t generally wake up until around midday, so we’d made our goodbyes last night, to leave in time to get back to work this morning. The sun is glowing golden through the passenger side window, a brief morning respite before the sleet and snow close over again. The roads are mostly empty at this time of morning, and we make good time back into the dark looming hulk of Tregam.

We stop by Dirk’s apartment for a change of clothes.

Sitting at the kitchen bar for a minute while he downs a coffee—neither of us got much sleep—I comment, "You know, we're not exactly meeting in the middle on this 'whose place to go to' thing."

"My place is fancier," he says, putting his cup down. He's shirtless, making him harder to argue with.

"Not by that much."

He looks me in the eye, much too alert compared to me. "My place wasn't once home to bitch-crazy killer."

I grimace.

"Doesn't it give you the creeps?"

"Well," I shrug, "I guess, but it’s cheap. If I moved, it'd have to be with another roommate, and that would give me the creeps even more.” I could afford to live alone, like Dirk. But barely. We may work the same job, but he never took a three-year hiatus and so the dip in his pay, and on top of that, I’m still paying off the remains of the mortgage I got with Caleb, the part that the house reclaim didn’t cover.

It’s shit, sure, but considering what Caleb really was, how things could have ended up, I’ll take the repayments for something I don’t even own. Soon, another year, and I’ll be clear.

Pulling a face, Dirk serves me an egg on toast, then braces his hands on the benchtop. "I don't want you to have a roommate."

Giving him a look, I ask, "Why? Because that would make sex on the couch awkward?"

"Because I want you to live with me."

I nearly choke on my orange juice. "What?" I splutter. Dirk only shrugs, nonplussed by my reaction. "We've barely been dating for two months!" I protest.

"We've known each other for years. And we've spent very few nights apart in that time, anyway."

Shaking my head, I point out, "Tawill doesn't know for sure. Most people aren't supposed to know. How will we explain having the same address?"

"We'll cross that bridge when we come to it. It’s not strictly against the rules. Besides, if she was going to fire you, it probably would have been last week when you mouthed off at her." He smirks, making me cringe as I recall my bravado in her office, and then her concerns, which have settled as a cold possibility in my gut right alongside Tristan being executed.

"Still, that’s not the point…"

Stepping around the counter, Dirk squeezes my arm. "Think about it. I'm ready, if you are."

I sip at my tea, even though anything like an appetite has fled, nerves in its place.

It’s still early, but we make for the precinct while the sun is still hugging the horizon. The halls and elevator are quiet, with the long winter nights pushing the days shorter, most choose to stay in until they absolutely must leave.

We head out to the front of the building where Dirk left his car. "Has anything come of those people under witness protection? Any weirdo attempted to reach them?" I ask as we step out of the elevator into the wide, white foyer.

"Not that I know of, just the usual media wanting every detail from them. Such as how they neglected the kids in their care—for once I’m on the side of those newshounds."

It feels like we’re the first people to cross the foyer this morning, having come around the back via the mailbox, the way most of the residents reach their cars. The reception desk as yet unmanned, the glass doors to the small courtyard between the building and street sliding open as we approach. "Maybe she'll go quiet again," I venture, "We don't really know what she meant by that poem, after all… Oh!” I gasp, bumping into Dirk when he abruptly stops right in front of me on the narrow path. “What is it?"

But he doesn't answer me, rather he’s stepping backwards, reaching to grip my arm and tug me back behind him as he does. A shot of anxiety hits me when I get a glance of his profile. With a deep dread in my gut, I know that when I follow his gaze, when I see what he’s locked onto, it’s going to be something I won’t ever forget.

The early noise from the street, the occasional toot of a horn, even the chittering of birds none the wiser for what they share their little strip of nature with, dulls, overpowered by the soft creak of the swinging rope. The morning light is too bright on the white strips, too innocent and golden on the plaster.

He’s just there , nestled among the bare branches of the trees. The cocoon is split open halfway down the body, the man within, no longer a human, just a body, an ornament, skin almost as white as the hardened cloth, the hollows of his eyes and cheeks competing with the darkness of his hair. He tips outwards a little, as though about to slip from the cocoon and fall the handful of metres to the path he dangles above. I can’t help but imagine the sound, the crunch. I anticipate it.

But of course, he’s been here for hours. He’s not moving any more than that swinging rope allows.

My hand has come to my mouth, heart thumping. Dirk’s grip on my arm brings me back, and it’s him staring, face pale, eyes blank in shock.

I need to do something. Call someone. Get him out of here.

Yes, that first.

I turn my hand, clutching his wrist. "Dirk, back inside." He doesn't respond. "We don't know who did this or where they are," I insist, my own ears as numb to my words as his. Tugging again, I snap, "Stop looking." Still nothing. I round him, grabbing the front of his shirt to shake him, and finally, his gaze, so haunted, with black circles materialised under his eyes, comes down to me, unseeing. I think he might pass out. "Dirk, I need you to come back inside. With me. For me."

He blinks and turns eerily cooperative as I take his hand and lead him back towards those doors. As I do, I see the side of the building, and the large white letters scrawled in a slant against the dark plaster.

Family is forever.

My stomach drops, and I know instantly this is no copycat. This is the real thing. Cocooner. She's early. And now, she's left us a message.

***

After I make the rushed call from behind the reception desk, I sit with Dirk in the foyer, out of sight of the courtyard. He's come back to lucidity somewhat, though he's pale and stunned-looking, features that make him share even more in common with the body out there.

It’s not hard to guess Cocooner did that as purposefully as she chose this location. My stomach turns. She’s sick. She’s never not going to be sick.

A family exits the elevator, parents and a small child, smiling and heading for the exit. I jump up, barring their way. "Sorry, the doors are… off limits for now, please use the back."

"Off limits?" the father asks sceptically, eying me like I might be mad.

I hear the sirens, and so do they, peering past me as the lights flash beyond the courtyard wall. "Yes, off limits. Please go the other way."

"I don't see…"

"There's been an incident." Dirk's voice is steady, though he still looks wan as he stands beside me, smiling down at the family. "You don't want to see it." Gesturing past them at the other exit, he then faces me. "Go meet the others, I can't…" he glances towards the doors, looking haunted.

I squeeze his arm. "You don't have to. No one’s expecting that. Stay here, stop anyone coming out." He manages a faint smile back, and as reluctant as I am to leave his side, I turn and step back out into the courtyard.

***

"It’s clear what she's asking for. We know Needler is her brother now. I say, hand him over. One last thing he can do for the city."

"So she can string him up? We can't do that to him after all the psychos he’s taken off the streets! We owe him!"

"Is she going to kill again if they keep Needler? How many will it take?"

"More reason to just release him!"

Those are just some of the sentiments that come through the TV before Tawill shuts off the screen. She looks tired. I don't know when she started looking tired, or when I stopped seeing her as untouchable. The precinct floor is all but empty, the call sent out to stay home today.

Only the ones on our case are in, Howie, Dean, Dirk and me. Every other body in the place is clad in black riot gear, waiting. They think there might be another raid. Since Conrad’s arrest, the people have been fitful, scattered, with nothing to bind them on one purpose. But still, it's not hard to imagine a group with ideas of handing Needler over themselves.

Tawill leans on the desk for a moment, as though bracing for the answer she knows must come from the question, "Are we any closer to finding her?"

None of us have the mindfulness to sugarcoat it. "No," Dean admits.

She sighs, her eyes closing for a moment. Dirk is sitting, the colour back to his cheeks since this morning, but hardly a word has come from him. Turning to him, Tawill says, "You need to go into witness protection."

That gets the sharp glint back in his eye. He straightens. "I won't."

Her brow darkens. "You brought this attention on yourself! Reminding her of your existence, that you got away…"

"And I wouldn't change it!" he snaps. "Are you going to put everyone in my building in witness protection, too?"

"This was clearly done for your benefit!"

"Then let’s use it! Fucking somehow , let’s get her for it."

Tawill's mouth twists. "You are no longer fit for this case."

Dirk just looks angrier, sitting forward again. "Take me off the case all you want. I'll still be a part of it."

"Officer Lancaster…"

"You guys need to see this." We all turn at the new, soft voice.

"Chloe! You're not meant to be in.”

She looks vaguely apologetic, wringing her fingers. "I know, but I saw the news, and I thought maybe the forum might have something about"—she glances at Dirk—"what happened. And it does."

Dirk and Tawill's impending explosion momentarily forgotten, we follow Chloe to the computer.

"What is it?" I ask, standing behind the desk chair as she sits down, facing the screen.

"Dates," she says, sounding, for a change, as weathered as the rest of us feel. "Today’s, and one two weeks from now."

"Fuck."

"She's upping her schedule," Dean concludes.

"Not just her schedule. Look."

We all do. There's not just one more date.

There are eight.

***

"She definitely knows we're watching the forum."

"She wants Needler. This is her way of forcing our hands."

We've all moved back to the empty precinct floor, a subconscious agreement to put space between us and the planned deaths so casually spelled out on that forum. Just more bad news to top off what’s turning out to be a terrible day.

"Why does she want Needler so bad?"

"Family is forever," I quote.

"Or she knows that with him is the only way we'll find her," Howie points out, then turns to Tawill. "With all due respect for policy, taking a detective off this case right now is the last thing we need.”

Tawill blinks, and takes a long breath.

“You can fire me after,” Dirk offers, with just enough of a hint of humour.

Tawill considers, then nods silently. "Detectives, I've got a media frenzy to abate." Meeting each of our eyes, she says, "I don’t want to know what you do until it’s done. Understood?”

I frown. That sounds suspiciously like free rein.

“That doesn’t mean it will be without repercussions. And I don’t need to tell you what’s at stake if this city plummets any further. Do what you must."

***

I wake up alone. My room is dark, and at first utterly silent, until some of the bleariness clears away and a soft, distant noise, almost a chant, hums over the scant noises of traffic. It must be very late, or very early.

The other side of the bed is empty, the blanket flipped back. We stayed at my place tonight, the possibility of staying at Dirk’s not even suggested. Not after this morning.

Dirk.

I sit up, mind fuddled, and eye the open door of my bedroom. Where is he? The air is cool, chilled like a window left open somewhere. I take the throw from the end of the bed, wrapping it over my bare shoulders before stumbling for the faint light outside my door. My apartment is as empty as my bedroom was.

It’s the draft nipping at my thighs, which draws my attention to the fire escape.

“Dirk, what are you doing?” I gasp as I step out onto the grate. “It’s freezing!”

His back is to me, bare skin white and soft-looking in the light pollution, wearing only a low pair of track pants. The soft chanting is louder out here, coming from the direction of the main road. The view down the brick sides of the alley gives way to a soft yellow glow, a thousand candles carried by the midnight vigil. I step up beside Dirk, peering out, but I don’t need to watch for long, to hear the mournful echo of their song, to know it’s a peaceful march, a memorium in honour of Cocooner victims. Someone is weeping, loud enough to blend and rise above the soft hum of a thousand voices. A victim’s family, probably. Maybe even the latest one, that boy barely eighteen.

I look away. It’s peaceful, at least, and more full of grief for it.

Touching Dirk’s shoulder, I find it icy. “Jesus,” I breathe out, pulling him to face me, catching the corners of the throw in my hands before I wrap my arms around him, bringing my warm bareness against his cold skin. “You’re shaking,” I say.

His arms come around me, chin tilted down towards my shoulder. It could be the cold that has him shaking. It could be many things. For a long time, he doesn’t talk, and his shivering abates but doesn’t flee completely. I feel his chest expand, then compress with each breath against mine. Even now, my feet going numb, the sharp grate jabbing against my soles. With that eerie chanting coming from behind me, he feels so good. He feels like safety, as false as being safe at all has turned out to be.

When his voice comes, it’s strained, a shadow of itself. “I can’t seem to stop feeling… stop suffering. I don’t mean for you to suffer with me. Thought I’d…” his voice trembles, chattering with cold. “Thought I’d treat you better than this.”

Lifting my head, I take his face in my hands. “How many times did you pull me from the dregs?” I ask. “You are not lesser for this. Let me take some of the suffering.” I squeeze as he tries to pull away. “I want to. Please.”

Slowly, he nods, and his head hangs, gaze dipping away. This time, I barely hear his words as he lets me help, lets me share the pain. “He died because of me. She picked him because he…” His voice breaks off. I don’t need him to finish the sentence. Because the boy looked like Dirk. Will the next ones? The next eight, will they look like him too? No . We’re not going to let it get so far.

I squeeze him. “We’ll catch her. We’ll lock her up.”

He’s quiet for so long that I think he’s not going to acknowledge my words, too lost in his own recriminations. A woman’s anguished keening spikes the quiet night air. The procession has nearly passed out of sight of the end of the alley.

“No,” Dirk murmurs, almost too soft for me to hear even with his mouth so close by my ear. “I need her dead.”