“That is one of the sickest things I’ve ever fucking heard,” Nico said, and downed his shot. I nodded and motioned for the waitress to bring me another. Rosaleen slid her drink to me.
“I thought you were done, Laytham?” she said. I said nothing but downed her tequila. “If your theory is correct,” she continued, “that would mean our suspect spent years working on her, ritually degrading her, tormenting her. The human soul is a paradox; it’s fragile, but it’s enduring.”
“Not enduring enough for what Jane went through,” I said as the waitress placed another drink in front of me. “I’m going to find him. I’m going to make him pay for Jane.”
“We will,” Nico said. We tapped shot glasses and drained them. I was flush with anger, with booze. “Something you have to be ready for, though, kid, is that it may be a very long haul. Riddle me this, what kind of sick-ass fuck can do something like this to a person day in and day out for years: focus their attention on a single human being, provide drugs, provide everything it takes to keep themselves and this other person alive, not just alive, but to live in a way that this kind of abuse is never reported, never comes back to karmically bitch-slap him? Tell me who owns a boat to leave his handiwork lying on a beach?”
“Someone rich,” I said. Rosaleen was looking at me; she moved her eyes back to Nico when I looked at her.
“And powerful often ass-drags along after rich,” Nico said. “I’ve worked enough of these, Laytham. They break your fucking heart. They’ll make you weep like a little child, because most times there is no end to it, no resolution, and the fucking skell gets away with it.”
“That’s a terribly bleak way to see the world, Nico,” Rosaleen said.
“Yeah, Rosie,” Nico said, “it is. I’m just trying to get him ready for it, if it happens on this one.”
“Not this time,” I said. “I’m going to find this fucking monster, and I’m going to stop him.”
“And that is what keeps us in the game, kid,” he said. “Gets us up out of the bed and keeps us out of the fucking loony bin. ‘Not this time.’ It’s why we took up the Brilliant Badge.”
We drank a final, quiet round.
* * *
It was four in the morning when the knock came at my motel room door. I had passed out with a mangled copy of a Spenser novel by Robert B. Parker on my chest. I rolled over, jumped up, almost fell on my face as the tequila and the gravity conspired against me. I opened the door expecting to see Nico, to hear there was another body. It was Rosaleen. She was in an oversized and faded Star Wars T-shirt, and she wore knee socks. Her face was freshly scrubbed, and her eyes were red.
“May I come in for a moment?” she asked. “I’m sorry if I woke you.”
“Please,” I said and opened the door wider. She walked in, and I closed the door. “You didn’t wake me. I was pretty zoned out from the drinks.”
“Nico was snoring so loudly he was rattling the door to his room,” she said. “I … I’m sorry to trouble you. I’ve been thinking about your theory and … it’s horrible, Laytham, just horrible, for someone to do that to another person, to ruin them and then just snuff them out. You’d think dealing with the dead every day, learning the craft I’ve learned, would somehow … callous me, but it hasn’t. Death is … natural, organic, if that makes any sense? It’s part of the universal cycle of learning and unlearning, of growth and closure. This poor girl, what was done to her is the most unnatural thing I’ve ever seen. It’s monstrous.” She blinked, and I saw her eyes glisten. “That poor girl.”
I pulled her to me and let her sob into my chest. Her hair smelled good, and she was warm and soft against me. I felt my body responding in spite of myself. “We’ll get him, darlin’,” I said. Something angry and proud tightened in me. “I’ll get him.” She looked up at me, behind her glasses.
“It won’t bring her back; it won’t renew her soul,” Rosaleen said. “Part of the cycle of creation was murdered with that girl, Ballard. The … thing … that did that to her didn’t just kill a human being, he killed part of … everything.”
I cupped her chin. Our eyes searched, trying to look past, look inside. I felt her body shift around mine, molding to me. She lifted up on tiptoe, and we kissed. At first it was gentle. I tasted her tears on her lips. Time became blurry at the edges. We kissed for a long time, then it became hungry, urgent, tongues finding each other, moans. We bumped into the bed and fell onto it as we surrendered to the relentless need, as we tried to devour one another. I removed her glasses and placed them on the nightstand next to the clock radio I had left on when I passed out. It was softly playing “Relax” by Frankie Goes to Hollywood from some far-off, ghostly, static-filled station.
I pulled her nightshirt off and she fumbled, reaching into my running shorts, as we scooted farther back onto my bed. Her breasts were apple-sized, and I ran my fingers over her nipples, softly. She gasped and pulled my shorts down and off. I was immutable diamond and yielding silk, and she explored me, cupping and caressing. She climbed on top of me, and her hair fell down like a curtain, hiding our faces as we kissed again. I kissed the tears away from her eyes. She came up, and we both murmured in pleasure as we fell into a rhythm, my hands on her hips, hers on my chest.
“Wait,” I said. “Stop, we have to stop. I have to stop. I’m sorry.” My hands stilled
