Harm’s Reach. Alex Barclay
Janine and Ren drove toward Denver.
‘Thank you for ferrying me home,’ said Ren.
‘Pleasure.’
‘That woman is a wreck.’
‘I know,’ said Janine. ‘Poor thing. They were definitely close.’
‘She’s pregnant and her housekeeper’s pregnant, though …’ said Ren.
‘Just a little bit coincidental,’ said Janine.
‘Hmm,’ said Ren.
‘We need to meet this Robert Prince guy,’ said Janine.
‘See if he impregnates us … just with a stare,’ said Ren.
‘I’ll say one thing,’ said Janine, ‘that Flynn family …’
‘Just a tiiiny bit jinxed,’ said Ren.
‘I mean, it’s been one death after another,’ said Janine.
‘Maybe they’re like The Incredibles, a big spy family … that has to be taken down …’ said Ren.
‘You’re terrible, Muriel … Oh my God, why are we laughing?’
‘Because we have to,’ said Ren. ‘Because it’s what we do. Because, why oh why oh why does a pregnant lady get to die today?’
‘I know,’ said Janine. ‘Now, explain this to me: the Princes rent a house in November in Golden. They want to ski, I get that. But why are they still here? They’ve rented it all the way through to the end of May. Wouldn’t you cancel that if you found out you were pregnant, so you weren’t going to be skiing, plus you have the option of a second home in the Hamptons if it’s a change of scenery you’re looking for …’
‘I know,’ said Ren. ‘It doesn’t make a lot of sense. But, then, it’s not like I’m thinking we’ve just walked away from a murderer … a liar, maybe.’
‘I was just about to say the same thing,’ said Janine. ‘Something was a little off.’ She paused. ‘Hey – it’s nine o’clock – news.’
‘Already?’ said Ren. ‘This day has flown.’
The report of Laura Flynn’s death was the top story.
‘The pressure is on,’ said Ren. ‘On you.’
‘Thanks for that,’ said Janine.
‘But we will do everything we can …’ said Ren.
They talked over the next story, until they were drawn into the mad ramblings of an evangelist.
‘Is this still the news?’ said Ren.
‘We might learn something …’ said Janine.
‘And in so doing, the devil visited upon the Earth a faithful following of fornicators, a plague of pornographers, a harem of homosexuals—’
‘A harem?’ said Ren. ‘Seriously? Who’s this dickhead?’
The report continued. ‘That was the voice of evangelist Howard Coombes, who was assaulted earlier today at Centennial Airport.’
‘Woo-hoo!’ said Ren. ‘I cannot stand that man.’
‘Coombes, who is here to attend a memorial for the victims of the Aurora Theater shooting, was being interviewed outside the building by one of our own presenters … Here’s the audio …
‘“I’m just here as a show of support to the people of Aurora who were so affected by—”’
Another man’s voice broke into the interview: ‘“What about supporting the rights of citizens to marry the person they love? What about the rights of a man to marry a man or a woman to marry a woman?”’
There was the sound of scuffling and it went back to the studio.
‘The angry protester threw a milkshake at Mr Coombes, later describing it as an impulse attack, but making a point that the sentiment behind it still stands.’
‘High five to the milkshake man,’ said Ren. ‘Howard Coombes – the voice of reasonlessness … High five also to the producer for running the sermon from before Coombes was caught fornicating with a “homo-sekshil”—’
‘Did I miss that?’ said Janine. ‘Isn’t he married with mini-me-vangelists?’
‘Oh, yes he is,’ said Ren. ‘His son, Jesse, was the child evangelist − he was touring at five, being interviewed on television – it was insane. The family were building up their empire for years. Then the father got caught with a man-of-the-night in a motel. Busted! But he got all repentant, so the family stuck by him and he blamed it all on the other guy. He gave one of the most odious speeches I’ve ever heard, saying the guy was a “homo-sekshil of the worst kind”, the kind who takes money from a married, God-fearing man going through a crisis, a man questioning his life and his ways, a vulnerable man, who did not seek answers from this stranger, but found only more questions. I mean, it didn’t even make sense.’
‘He said that? “Of the worst kind”? What an asshole,’ said Janine.
‘Well, hopefully, he’s an asshole on a flight back to California.’
‘What’s he doing getting all up in our business anyway?’ said Janine.
‘I know,’ said Ren. ‘He is out there directing his wrath at people whose sin is to love? He should be pointing his daggers at the kind of people who would take a pregnant lady’s life. OK … deep breaths. Deep breaths.’
‘Yup,’ said Janine, ‘take your rantin’ pants off.’
‘I like that – rantin’ pants,’ said Ren. ‘I’ll get home, swap them for my fornicatin’ pants.’
‘Is yo’ man paying you a visit?’ said Janine.
‘No,’ said Ren. ‘Sadly. Realistically? We’re talking pajama pants tonight. Ah, the challenges of the long-distance relationship.’
Ren arrived home at nine thirty to an exceptional welcome from Misty, her black-and-white border collie and beloved friend. For a little over a year, Ren and Misty had been house-sitting a beautiful Gold-Rush-era home in historic Denver. It was owned by Annie Lowell, a Bryce family friend who had been a widow as long as Ren had known her. She was eighty-two now and busy traveling across Europe. She had been due back two months earlier, but had fallen in love with so many places on her trip, she kept extending it. Ren loved Annie … and loved that she was having such a good time.
Ren had recently auditioned dog walkers to look after Misty when she was working. She had settled on Devin, a sweet student from across the street, who loved Misty like she was her own. Ren had recently told Devin that Misty was a cadaver dog in her spare time, but it hadn’t broken Devin’s dog-walking stride.
When Ren walked into the hall, there was a box of Mike and Ike Berry Blast on top of the newel post with a pink Post-it stuck to it. Devin always left little things for Ren inside the door: notes or candy or something totally random.
Aw. Always something sweet to come home to.
She read the note.
Sugar rrrrrrush! Hope you cleaned up the streets today! Misty ran a marathon! Still no dead bodies, tho!
Devin
Ren laughed as she walked