Page 4 of Sullied Saints

Unfortunately, it’s hard to say he's wrong on any of his points.

"Looks like he's still got a following," I mumble.

Dean sighs, reminding me abruptly of Howie. Tregam is ageing all of us faster of late. "That he does."

"We're not stopping untiltheystop!" The mob mentality shifts in waves. I feel the moment, like a frizzle in the air, that the protest isn't peaceful anymore.“Stop lying to us! Stop leaving us to the wolves while they hide behind police batons! We won’t be sheep to the slaughter!”

The riot line starts moving forward, the reporters with their sixth sense for when things are about to escalate, suddenly absent or at least out of throwing range.

"They don't scare us, they can’t! We live with monsters they won’t protect us from!"

Dean tugs on my arm as the first baton connects with a screaming protestor’s arm. "Come on, it’s not a good time to be out here."

A watermelon smashes across the step below my feet. More garbage, rotten food and debris lobs over the security line. I let Dean pull me back through the doors, but the sounds, the thump of strikes and chants all come through like a rumble.

"Have they been like that every day?" I ask, eyeing the gap between the doors.

Dean shakes his head. "That’s the worst I've seen them. Conrad reappeared about a week ago. He hadn’t been seen since his fiancé’s funeral, when he dropped out of the running to mourn. Now, he’s pushing the protests to, well… the next level." He nods back down the hall. "Best stay a bit longer until the riot squad clears them off."

***

I feel like a carcass, waiting to be picked.

The crowd of thirty press murmurs quietly down in the rows, glancing up towards the panel. I’ve been put on the edge of the stage, like the powers that be would rather I wasn’t present at all. I’m sure Tawilldoeswish that. But having me present for the press junket is a good chance to do some damage control. So long as I sit quietly and don’t answer questions with direct answers, as I’ve been instructed. And to not,under any circumstances, allude to the supposedly dead Cassandra, Tristan’s sister, being the Cocooner. Like I’m an idiot that will let any old thing slip.

Tawill is sitting at the midpoint of the table that faces out over the small auditorium. She hasn’t spoken a word in my direction. I know she’s disgusted after finding out what I did. She’d probably prefer not to set eyes on me.

Next to her is a hard-looking man in army khaki, with a general’s star on his chest. What’s the military got to do with this? The riots are bad, but surely not that bad? Like the rest of this event, he’s probably here for show, to demonstrate to the populace that we mean business and we’re not afraid to use force. But the people know that already. That’s part of the problem. Police violence is another justified gripe circulating the streets.

A handful of others I don’t care to recognise make up the panel of eight, and only one chair at the other end remains empty as the place settles. None of them speak to me, though I’m sure they recognise me from the news stories, from the rumours.

Tawill stands, and though she’s by no means a tall woman, her movement is noted, and the press quiets, waiting. She opens her mouth. And then attention redirects.

My breath halts in my throat when I turn and see him on the other side of the stage.

I’ve come to my feet, facing him over the tops of the others, and his eyes find me with the movement.

Dirk’s face stays blank, conveying nothing. I search for something,anything.

We’ve not spoken to each other since the paramedics led us off in different directions, a blanket over his bare shoulders. I need desperately to know that he’s okay, that the dark circles under his eyes, the pain in his gaze, can be mended. That he’s able to find any peace, after everything.

Time extends. I don’t get answers. With a jolt, Dirk snaps out of the inertia to realise the entire room, not only me, is staring at him. He is the man who survived the Cocooner. The only one.

Blinking, he takes the empty seat. “Detective Lancaster,” Tawill says, drawing attention off him. “Glad you could make it.”

Self-consciously, I sit down too. And then the questions start.

I try not to fidget through them, my shoulders tense, knowing that eventually the questions will be aimed at me. I’m not ready for that. I’m even less ready for them to be aimed at Dirk. I can only glimpse him if I lean forward and look down the row to spot the edge of his still, expressionless form. What’s he thinking? Feeling?

“…arresting the serial killer known as Cocooner is our main priority. We want to assure the public that we will not rest until she is off the streets,” Tawill is answering the latest question in much a similar vein as she answered the one before, just with the words rearranged. That’s the point of these panels; the press wanting answers they know they won’t get, and the panel giving as little as they can while making it sound like the whole story.

Another reporter stands, an older woman. “Did the precinct know or suspect Cocooner was a woman?”

“We did not.”

“Are the detectives on the Cocooner case on the panel today?”

“No.”

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