traveling at better than eighty miles per hour because by the time all was said and done, it had only taken us five minutes to reach I-64. Shortly after that, we were turning down my street, and although we were still a few blocks away, in the distance we could already see the flickering lights of the squad cars in front of my house. Their stark flashes of red and white strobed like an ugly blemish on the night, and once again the pit of my stomach was gone.
Blowing through the stop signs as the blocks ticked past, it took less than a minute for us to reach our destination. My friend had barely started braking the van when I unbuckled my seatbelt and grabbed the handle on the sliding side door.
“Dammit, Row!” he shouted. “Hold on a sec! Ya’ can’t get…”
I didn’t hear the rest of his comment because I had already levered the door backward on its raspy tracks and then launched myself through the opening. The vehicle was literally still rolling when my feet hit the pavement. Although I stumbled, I somehow managed to keep my footing and started jogging toward my house. I probably would have stepped it up and broken into a dead run had it not been for the uniformed officer who met me at the end of the driveway.
“Whoa!” he barked, one hand out toward me and the other resting on his sidearm. “Hold up! Where do you think you’re going?”
I stumbled to a halt and spat, “Where does it look like?”
“Lockup if you keep being a smartass,” he replied without missing a beat. “Now how about answering my question?”
My next response was more in line with what he was after but still flat and succinct. I pointed past him and said, “In the house. I live here.”
“Okay. Are you Mister O’Brien?”
“Gant, actually,” I replied. “Felicity O’Brien is my wife. Is she still in there?”
He nodded. “Calm down. The detectives are taking her statement. I’m going to need to see some ID, sir.”
I sighed and reached for my wallet. Before I could fully extract it from my pocket, however, Ben drew up alongside me, his badge hanging around his neck on a thick cord.
“Detective Storm, Major Case Squad,” he told the officer while flashing his official ID. Then he wagged his thumb at me. “It’s okay. Go ahead an’ sign ‘im in, he really does live here. And besides, he’s actually a consultant for the MCS.”
By now I had my driver’s license in my hand and was holding it out to the cop. He went ahead and gave it a cursory glance then nodded.
“Okay, you can put that away now, Mister Gant,” he told me, then made a half turn and called to another officer who was positioned at the opposite corner of the yard where the crux of the activity was going on. “Yo, Foreman. I need that log over here for a sec… Hey… Foreman…” He glanced quickly back to us as he started trekking toward the man with the sign-in sheet. “Hang on…”
Once he was out of earshot, my friend grumbled at me, “See, Row? I tried ta’ tell ya’ ta’ fuckin’ wait.”
I didn’t respond. I was too busy being mesmerized by the gruesome carnival that had taken up residence in my front yard. A sagging ribbon of bright yellow crime-scene tape cordoned off my property line, extending out past the sidewalk and even beyond the curb itself. Spotlights from a pair of squad cars were aimed at the area, and a stark pool of light filled the lawn. Swimming in it was a woman wearing a windbreaker emblazoned with the words CRIME SCENE UNIT, a clipboard and numbered tent-shaped markers in hands. The true centerpiece of the entire spectacle, however, was the nude body sprawled on the grass.
As much as I hated to admit it, over the years I had become increasingly jaded about crime scenes. Once you’d stood in the middle of enough of them, the experience tended to take on a clinical edge. It was always surreal in its own way but dispassionate nonetheless. Each scene was different, and each was the same. Every one of them had a story to tell-and often times even more than one if you listened closely enough. You just had to figure out which voices were telling you the truth.
But, this one was different.
Here, my repetition-cultivated indifference was overpowered by the pain of violation. Variations of this scene had played out on this very ground far too many times.
When Eldon Porter had come here to kill me…
When Felicity was kidnapped…
When Miranda had left her first calling card…
Just to name a few.
And now, it was happening yet again. While it was almost certain that our home held some sort of morbid record for the most instances as an active crime scene, it was one of those dubious honors I definitely could have done without. As callous as I had become about such things, I could simply never get used to having the horror land directly on my doorstep.
Ben, apparently misunderstanding my daze, offered in a consoling voice, “She’s okay, Row. I already told ya’ that. Relax.”
I remained mute and continued to watch splashes of red and white from the active light bars atop the municipal police cruisers as they flickered across the fronts of my neighbors’ houses-and in some instances, my neighbors’ faces. Even at well past midnight, some of them were intent on gawking. No big surprise really because I’d seen it before. I would have liked to think there was an element of compassion in the stares, but unfortunately, I knew better. I’d learned way too much about human nature to believe that was true. Besides, empathy definitely didn’t fit with the rumors that had been circulating about us around our neighborhood for the past few years.
Ben gave my arm a nudge. “Hey, white man. Did’ja hear what I said? She’s fine. Felicity’s okay. Stop worryin’.”
I finally nodded. “Yeah…I know, Ben. I know. But…I’m not entirely sure that I am.”
“What? You gettin’ ready ta’ zone out on us?” he asked.
“I really don’t think so,” I replied.
“Okay. So what’s wrong?”
“I’m not exactly sure… I mean…it’s strange… There’s nothing there, Ben. I’m not feeling anything…”
“Ya’ mean like physically, or like the la-la land shit?”
“The la-la land,” I echoed as I shook my head. “I’m not connecting. It’s weird.”
“It’s prob’ly just ‘cause you’re wore out, Row.”
“Maybe… But that’s never made…” Before I could finish the thought, I was interrupted by the uniformed officer returning with the crime scene log.
“Here,” he said as he came walking back toward us and offered Ben a clipboard. “You know the drill.”
My friend quickly scribbled his information on the page and then handed it to me. “So…you were sayin’?”
“Being exhausted has never affected me like this before.” I mimicked my friend’s actions and then returned the log to the officer. “Usually it’s the opposite.”
Ben shrugged. “Yeah, well you’re good for a lotta firsts, ya’know. Maybe this is just somethin’ new.”
“Maybe,” I returned. “But whatever it is, something just isn’t right.”
“Man…” he mumbled as he shook his head. “I hate when you say shit like that. It usually means somethin’ bad’s about ta’ happen, and we’re gonna be in the middle of it.”
“It’s already happening, don’t you think?”
“Yeah, but I mean somethin’ worse. You’re pretty fuckin’ good for that darkest before it goes completely black crap too, ya’know.” Ben pulled the crime scene tape upward and jerked his head toward the house. “Well c’mon…”
I started to duck under but stopped halfway through and asked, “Where’s Constance?”
“She was makin’ some calls,” he answered, glancing back toward his van then back to me. “Yeah…she’s still sittin’ there. Looks like she ain’t done just yet. She’ll prob’ly be along in a bit.” As he finished the sentence, he motioned for me to keep moving.
I nodded then continued beneath the tape and started up the driveway with my friend close behind. I was still several yards from the near end of the flagstone walk when the front door of the house opened and a man I recognized to be one of the aforementioned detectives stepped out onto the porch. My wife followed behind him almost immediately.
