Jackson 07 - Where All the Dead Lie by J.T. Ellison Page A

She was surprised by the cypress trees, which were so reminiscent of the Italian countryside she loved. The beautiful trees brought up fond memories, memories Memphis seemed determined to ruin with his inopportunely timed interruptions. She’d forgotten what a blue jay he could be. Of course, after being trapped in silence for the past month, most of the people close to her had grown quiet as well. She had to remember that. He was simply being friendly.
    “You’ll be pleased to know the weather will be fine tomorrow. A brief storm tonight, some snow, but nothing you won’t be able to handle. It might liven up a bit later in the week. You did pack your warm boots….
    “May I get you some more tea? The trolley should be coming back through any moment….
    “You’re much too thin, you need a proper fattening up. Cook will be thrilled to have a project. She gets terribly dejected when my parents decide to spend the holidays away….”
    And finally, “Are you ignoring me on purpose, or have you simply lapsed into a travel coma?”
    She mentally shook herself. She was being awfully rude.
    She held up a finger to make him wait a minute, then retrieved her laptop from her bag. If they were going to have a conversation, it was easier and quicker for her to type.
    She opened to a blank page in Word and typed her answer.
     
     
    Not ignoring. Just used to quiet. Sorry. Where are we now?
     
     
    “Just north of York.”
    The trolley arrived again, momentarily saving her from more conversation. She was full of tea, accepted a glass of wine instead. Outside, the clouds turned from white to gray, and small bits of blue tried to peek through. The vistas were changing, growing wider, with more farmland visible. The landscape was dotted with the cotton of lambs.
    With the alcohol on board, things became easier. She dropped her walls a bit and allowed herself to enjoy the ride. She and Memphis settled into a comfortable rhythm of chatter and writing. She watched his blue eyes light up when he saw something outside the train windows he thought she should know about. He was full of stories and memories.
    “See the cathedral at Durham? One of Britain’s most famous serial killers is housed in the prison here….
    “We call this the Angel of the North….
    “This is still the Thames, all the way up in Newcastle, famous for their bridges. The Tweed River is at the border between England and Scotland….”
    They chugged past an undulating concert hall that looked like a roly-poly, one of the insects Taylor had treasured as a child. She’d combed the ground for them, picked them up with her grubby hands, thrilled to watch them curl into tiny balls that made them impervious to her incessant poking.
    Trees that looked like miniature Italian Stone pines puffed their tops into umbrella shapes—yet another reminder of her time in Italy. She wondered whether the conquerors brought them or if they migrated naturally.
    A murder of crows stood watch in a field. She imagined their caws, overlaid with the delicate notes of the fine song-birds in Nashville. They’d gathered in the branches at the Snow White’s house, their Siren call pulling her in, where the Pretender lay in wait for her…
    God, she had to stop flashing back like this. It was disturbing in the extreme, this inability to divorce the most mundane sights and sounds from the shooting.
    She had the most absurd thought, which pulled her back to the present. She knew it would make Memphis laugh. She hoped his mirth would be catching.
     
     
    Do the crows have a British accent?
     
     
    “What?”
     
     
    The crows. The animals in general. Do they have some sort of accent, like you do?
     
     
    “I haven’t an accent. Besides, I would think it’s the American animals with the inflections, don’t you? A drawl here, a twang there. It’s all the Queen’s English, after all.”
    They shared a smile, then were quiet for a bit.
    The sun was growing low in the sky. She burrowed