The Drowning Child. Alex Barclay
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Gil Wiley was moving through the line, greeting the people he knew.
‘Wiley looks like he’s on the campaign trail,’ said Ren. ‘His voice … it’s like it’s being garbled for a TV interview to protect his identity. Like we should only ever be seeing him in sil-you-ette.’
Gary held in a laugh, but still managed a low-volume sound of approval.
‘It’s not Denver cold,’ said Ren, ‘but it’s still cold. That Puffa jacket might have been fine for the walk to school, but if Caleb Veir’s been out overnight …’
Gary nodded. ‘I know.’
People continued to arrive, and the crowd began to expand toward them.
Ren’s heart started to pound.
Oh, no, please don’t do this. Not here.
She swallowed. She swallowed again.
No, no, no. Not now. Not here.
And the sensation struck, again.
Drowning, drowning.
Keep it together, bitch.
‘Gary …’ One word, and it came out like it had needed the Heimlich maneuver to make it.
Oh, God. My legs.
She pressed her hand against her thigh.
Like that’s going to help.
‘Gary,’ she said. ‘I’m not feeling a lot like being around big groups of people.’
He turned to her. He was waiting for more.
Breathe. Breathe.
Speak.
Speak!
‘Ren?’ said Gary.
Crowds people I’m going to pass out don’t you won’t stop breathe in out in out breathe I can’t you’re going to pass out.
Gary took her to one side. ‘Are you OK?’
‘I’m … I’m feeling overwhelmed.’
He studied her face.
Oh, no. Not the grave concern. No fucking way.
‘I just need a moment,’ said Ren, ‘I’m fine.’
No you’re not.
‘I just … don’t feel like being in the thick of this right now,’ said Ren, ‘or, like, in the middle of search teams or lunches where I have to do small talk with people. I just—’
‘If that’s how you’re feeling,’ said Gary, ‘I’m glad you told me. So I know to make sure you do exactly those things.’
You have got to be shitting me. I can’t believe I said ‘lunches’. Jesus.
‘Come on, Ren – what did you think I was going to say?’ He was looking straight ahead. ‘Do you think I’m carrying around free passes for people? No. You’re here one hundred per cent or you’re not here at all. That’s how this works. They were the conditions.’ He paused. ‘I know you’re not a big fan of conditions, Ren.’ He looked at her. ‘I’ve got your back. Conditionally.’
‘Great.’ Greaaaat. ‘Thank you.’
‘The good news is,’ said Gary, ‘there’s only one condition – that you do the best job you can. And that means being no more special than the next investigator or the next. Or the one standing beside you minus half his left triceps.’
Ooh, even you know that sounds like it’s a competition.
A touch of awareness flickered in Gary’s eyes.
‘I, however, will give you a free pass for that,’ said Ren.
She had been in the room, inches from him, watching as the bullet ripped through his arm, and the memory still drove a spike of pain through her core.
‘I think you need to see Dr Lone more often,’ said Gary. Dr Leonard Lone was Ren’s psychiatrist. Her job was dependent on regular visits with him. ‘Every two weeks is clearly not enough.’
Sweet Jesus. Gather yourself. Do not let him see you like this again. ‘OK,’ said Ren. Oh. Fucking. Kay.
Ren slapped a studied frown on her face as her heart pounded.
Fake it ’til you make it.
She drew subtle, slow, deep breaths through her nostrils as she scanned the crowd again. She saw a pretty blonde in her mid-forties, dressed in a pink zip-up fleece, lycra pants, and bright pink sneakers wrap her arms around a lanky, shaven-headed young man who looked to be in his early twenties.
Skin and bones and an air of the unwashed.
The woman squeezed him tight. It was a maternal gesture, and he didn’t fight it. There was profound sadness in both their faces.
Ren turned to Gary. ‘Excuse me for two seconds.’
She walked toward the embracing pair, looking at a point past them, pausing as she reached them to take out her phone and pretend to text.
‘This is a grieving town,’ the woman was saying. ‘A grieving town.’
Grieving agent finds spiritual home.
‘I’m praying for him,’ said the woman, squeezing his arm. ‘Praying for him night and day.’
But he’s only just gone missing. There’s only been one night and one day.
‘Thank you,’ said the young man. ‘I appreciate it. And I know Aunt Shannon will too.’
I’m lost …
‘Hopefully,’ said the woman, ‘there’ll be a more positive outcome for Caleb Veir.’
Oh. OK. She’s talking about the other boy … the one who drowned: Aaron Fuller.
‘Yes,’ said the young man. ‘I couldn’t not come to help today.’
‘Good for you,’ said the woman.
She left quickly, and as Ren looked up, there was no one between her and the young man, and they locked eyes. He gave her a small nod, then turned and walked toward the line of volunteers.
When Ren went back over to Gary, Ruddock was standing with him, looking in her direction, but following the path of the young man.
‘Who is that guy?’ said Ren.
‘Interesting you should ask,’ said Ruddock. ‘He’s a former inmate of BRCI, got out last summer: Seth Fuller. He’s a cousin of Aaron, the boy who drowned. He lives with his aunt out at The Crow Bar on Lake Verny. She owns it. In fact, she bought it from John Veir – he bought it when he came back from one of his tours of duty. He was going to set up a dive school there, or do boat tours, but it never really worked out for him, so he had to sell up.’
‘How did he afford that?’ said Ren.
Ruddock shrugged. ‘I don’t know.’
‘What was Seth Fuller in prison for?’ said Ren.
‘Possession. He’s a former heroin addict, cleaned up his act, apparently.’
Not that apparent …
‘He wasn’t mentioned on John Veir’s questionnaire as someone to consider,’ said Ren.
‘No,’ said Ruddock. ‘And Veir