Page 53 of Sullied Saints

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 arenotlesser 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.”

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