Page 53 of Pure Killers

Those others that he’s taken, that’s somehow okay, so long as Caleb wasn't counted among them. But I was kidding myself. Needler is the one who took him away from me. The fantasy I’d spun where my actions somehow weren’t so bad is just that, a fantasy. Here I am, playing the grieving widow, when all the while I’ve been letting his murderer into my bed.

How did I come to this? Tears prick my eyes. "I'm sorry," I whisper, tasting them. "I've lost my way. I don’t know how it happened..."

The service is starting, a reading where the park meets the memorial. The crowd grows every minute, people rushing to make the dawn service. I get a seat at the front, with the other widows, children, or parents. The words wash over me, feeling meaningless in the harsh reality of losing someone this way. I wait for it to be over.

As we're all allowed to stand, a reporter finds me first. I recognise her, blond and pretty, with a voice that cuts throughthe space. She wants to know about last night and passes over today’s newspaper, folded back to the second page. It’s me, in my ballgown at the train station, beside Dean as we face off against a stubborn line of Needler fans. The picture is excellent, capturing a moment in time perfectly, Dean’s gun half-lifted, and the expression on my face as if I’ve already realised the futility of trying. I didn't even know someone was there with a camera. The headline reads: ‘The people choose their side.’

"Anything to say about last night’s Needler strike, Ms Bishop?"

I glance up sharply at the title. My married name. I guess for the occasion.

"Unfortunately, we were unable to anticipate the Needler's movements at the Tregam Diversion and were unable to stop the murder," I say politically.

"The victim was a racist and suspected gang leader. Is that correct?"

"We're looking into that. Now if you'll excuse me," I say quickly, as she opens her mouth to ask more, "I'm here to pay respect to my late husband, another victim of Needler." The way I say it is pointed, reminding them of what the city likes to forget. Of what I, even, have liked to forget. She backs off quickly then, and I turn away and march purposefully, my head starting to pound, the sun too hot for something just risen.

Lingering by Caleb's picture has the bonus effect of deterring most from speaking to me, other than to offer condolences. I think of nothing, really, and yet everything. Caleb, the home we had, the life we planned. They're distant thoughts, the meaning long lost now. He was so tired towards the end, distant, distracted. The only thing that reliably improve his mood was using that damned giant telescope of his. I’d wake up alone even if I knew he was home, just to look out the window and see him there, a silhouette in the darkness. Sometimes I’d go out andlet him tell me about another distant star or a constellation that seemed too far away to matter. More often, I’d go back to bed.

His moods were unpredictable even to me in those days. Though he never drank and I understood what he was going through, having been a detective for longer than him.

How easy to forget those minor disagreements, the small grudges, all in the face of the greater grief that befell us. Befell me. He was dead, and there was nothing and no one to fight. I had to find something to fight then or give up entirely. And that something was Needler, and every other heartless soul in Tregam.

Dean stops by my side, and so does Tawill, nodding respectfully to Caleb's picture. Dean touches my arm briefly, and I offer him a smile. Dirk comes last, and I can only assume the reporters harassed him rather than me. Did he tell them the same story? What did he say of his part, supposedly thrown into the lake?

"I'm gonna head into the station." He glances at the picture. "Want a lift?"

"I think I'll stay a while longer. But thanks, I'll catch you there."

He smiles faintly, squeezes my shoulder, then leaves me.

I'm restless as the square clears, wandering among the other pictures, bouquets around them like sad little gardens. I glance at the photos, the names, and their quotes. Like I'm browsing, I realise. The place is cleared out and lonely, a chill wind bringing over cloud cover and taking the warmth out of the air. I tuck my hands in my pockets and make for the subway.

Only two stops to the station, but the late night and the emotional turmoil are catching up with me, so I sit down as the train rattles through its tunnels. The carriage is largely empty, the rush over, leaving me with just an old man, a group of teenage boys at the other end, and a man in a hoodie across fromme. The train has a lull to it which almost has me dozing. I catch myself with my eyes drifting closed, straighten, and look at the man across from me. I should know better by now, be able to spot him from a mile away..

By the time I would have stood, he's crossed to sit next to me instead. Glancing at the old man, who has dozed off himself, I hiss at Needler, "What are you doing?"

Without a preamble, he speaks in his low, altered voice. The mask covers his whole face this time, shadowed inside the hood. "The Cocooner, they want you next."

I pull back abruptly. "What?"

"You need to believe me."

I laugh, but it’s an awkward, shocked kind of laugh. "Well, I don't!"

"I don't want to hurt you with this," he says.

"What are you talking about?"

"…But I will, if that’s what it takes to make you believe it."

I shake my head once. "How would you know what Cocooner wants?"

"It’s better if you and everyone else don't know that."

Irritated as much as afraid, I demand, "Then, without evidence, why would I believe anything you say?"

“They’ve perfected now. They’re ready.”

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