feel like I can do anything."
C HAPTER T WENTY -S IX
Police detective was the sort of job that doesn't make you feel good very often. Sam could count on the fingers of one hand the times that he had felt proud that he had his job, that he carried his badge.
Of course, he didn't join the force to feel good about himself, but some days were better than others, and the days when being a detective made him feel like shit were a good sight worse than the days that did not.
Today, Sam felt like shit.
He stood to the side of the ceremony, not wanting to give the impression that he felt like he belonged there, as if he could mourn in the same way or with the same intensity that the dead girl's relatives could mourn. On the other hand, he didn't want to stand so far away that he gave an impression of distaste. It was an impossible task, to find the appropriate place to stand at a funeral to which he had not been invited, and which—if he had been better at his job—maybe would not have been necessary in the first place.
Sam stood with his hands in his pockets and welcomed the queasy feeling in his stomach. That was the feeling that reminded him that a monster was still out there. Sam was close now, he could feel it, but he wasn't close enough. The sea of black clothing that surrounded him reminded him of that. The ashen faces of Becky's parents were simply punctuation.
Well, he was here to do a job. Sam shoved his feelings down and scanned the crowd. He wasn't looking for anything specific, just something or someone who seemed out of place. Sam knew that he wasn't lucky enough to find the killer standing right next to him at the funeral of a girl he had killed, but he was nothing if not thorough and so he scanned the crowd for a face he didn't expect to find there.
You're out there, you bastard. You have another girl and she may be dead already, but I have your scent now. You son of a bitch, I have your scent, and I'm coming.
Tyrone stood beneath the shade of a tree and rested his hands against the cool iron fence that ringed the cemetery. He could see the ceremony off in the distance, and in his heart he joined the mourners there.
His eyes filled with tears at the thought of the pain they must be suffering.
Tyrone knew pain. The therapists all wanted to talk about his childhood, as if the things that happened to him when he was little were so much worse than what happened later. Tyrone knew the truth, though. He knew that a child is strong because he can forget. Tyrone remembered in a detached sort of way what his parents had done to him. When he played through the memories it was kind of like watching television. He saw what happened, but he didn't feel it. Whatever he might have felt at the time, the pain and the fear, those things were gone now, and emptiness took their place.
The more recent pains were the ones that kept Tyrone from sleeping at night. He remembered what had happened to his friends in Afghanistan. He wished he could forget, but he couldn't. Tyrone knew that he had done terrible things while on tour, and he knew that God would never let him forget those things. Memory was how he paid for his sins.
And Tyrone could remember prison, after they found out what he'd done. He'd tried to explain, but they wouldn't listen, they were too angry at him. And so they put him into a place where the worst people in the world lived. Tyrone carried scars from that time, some on the outside and some on the inside. Eventually he got out, but he knew better than anyone that, when you escape from hell, you bring a little piece of it with you.
He breathed a sigh of relief. At least Betsy was free now.
Tyrone could hear the sounds of mourning, even though he was far away. He knew how sad they must be, because Betsy was a pretty girl and everyone loves the pretty ones. He wanted to shout out to them, though. He wanted to wave his arms and yell, "Rejoice! She's free! She's safe now, and she's with God! No
C HAPTER T WENTY -S IX
Police detective was the sort of job that doesn't make you feel good very often. Sam could count on the fingers of one hand the times that he had felt proud that he had his job, that he carried his badge.
Of course, he didn't join the force to feel good about himself, but some days were better than others, and the days when being a detective made him feel like shit were a good sight worse than the days that did not.
Today, Sam felt like shit.
He stood to the side of the ceremony, not wanting to give the impression that he felt like he belonged there, as if he could mourn in the same way or with the same intensity that the dead girl's relatives could mourn. On the other hand, he didn't want to stand so far away that he gave an impression of distaste. It was an impossible task, to find the appropriate place to stand at a funeral to which he had not been invited, and which—if he had been better at his job—maybe would not have been necessary in the first place.
Sam stood with his hands in his pockets and welcomed the queasy feeling in his stomach. That was the feeling that reminded him that a monster was still out there. Sam was close now, he could feel it, but he wasn't close enough. The sea of black clothing that surrounded him reminded him of that. The ashen faces of Becky's parents were simply punctuation.
Well, he was here to do a job. Sam shoved his feelings down and scanned the crowd. He wasn't looking for anything specific, just something or someone who seemed out of place. Sam knew that he wasn't lucky enough to find the killer standing right next to him at the funeral of a girl he had killed, but he was nothing if not thorough and so he scanned the crowd for a face he didn't expect to find there.
You're out there, you bastard. You have another girl and she may be dead already, but I have your scent now. You son of a bitch, I have your scent, and I'm coming.
Tyrone stood beneath the shade of a tree and rested his hands against the cool iron fence that ringed the cemetery. He could see the ceremony off in the distance, and in his heart he joined the mourners there.
His eyes filled with tears at the thought of the pain they must be suffering.
Tyrone knew pain. The therapists all wanted to talk about his childhood, as if the things that happened to him when he was little were so much worse than what happened later. Tyrone knew the truth, though. He knew that a child is strong because he can forget. Tyrone remembered in a detached sort of way what his parents had done to him. When he played through the memories it was kind of like watching television. He saw what happened, but he didn't feel it. Whatever he might have felt at the time, the pain and the fear, those things were gone now, and emptiness took their place.
The more recent pains were the ones that kept Tyrone from sleeping at night. He remembered what had happened to his friends in Afghanistan. He wished he could forget, but he couldn't. Tyrone knew that he had done terrible things while on tour, and he knew that God would never let him forget those things. Memory was how he paid for his sins.
And Tyrone could remember prison, after they found out what he'd done. He'd tried to explain, but they wouldn't listen, they were too angry at him. And so they put him into a place where the worst people in the world lived. Tyrone carried scars from that time, some on the outside and some on the inside. Eventually he got out, but he knew better than anyone that, when you escape from hell, you bring a little piece of it with you.
He breathed a sigh of relief. At least Betsy was free now.
Tyrone could hear the sounds of mourning, even though he was far away. He knew how sad they must be, because Betsy was a pretty girl and everyone loves the pretty ones. He wanted to shout out to them, though. He wanted to wave his arms and yell, "Rejoice! She's free! She's safe now, and she's with God! No
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