throat, but when he tried to breathe there was a gurgling sound and he couldn't take in air. Panic rose up in him, eyes widening as his hand shot up to cover the grinning wound, but the blood flowed over and between his fingers and his knees went out from under him as he frantically tried to gasp in air through vital tubes, now severed and useless.
As he lay there on the ground, his body jerked convulsively like a live fish tossed upon a bank, and then the darkness, darker than any night, rolled over him.
Norman did not feel himself being moved, nor hear the scrape of gravel beneath his body as it was dragged away.
* * *
Earlier that evening, Naomi went shopping for a frame for Mary Rose's poem and found exactly the right one, with a narrow light wood trim. Intent on her own purchase, she didn't notice the dark-haired sales-clerk a few aisles away in the children's department, smiling at an elderly woman who was holding up a large, brown teddy bear for her approval. Neither the sales-clerk nor Naomi could know that they were fated to meet, or that Debbie Banks' life, like her own, would be changed forever because of what happened to a teenaged Native girl all those years ago. Norman Banks' wife would later wonder why she didn't feel the exact moment when her husband's life had bled out of him, and his soul departed this earth. How could she not have sensed this?
At home, Naomi hung the framed poem in her room beside the vanity mirror and stood back to admire it. She had neatly cut out Mary Rose's photo from the newspaper and fitted it in the bottom, left hand corner of the frame. Perfect.
The room seemed more hers now.
Chapter Seventeen
"Take a seat right over there, Ma'am." The heavy-set policeman with a pewter-coloured buzz cut said, gesturing to a row of forest green plastic chairs set against the wall. "I'll tell Sergeant Nelson you're here. He's with someone right now."
Naomi had been sitting in the hard-backed chair for about five minutes, by turns thumbing idly through an ancient copy of Reader's Digest she picked up off the low table in front of her, and observing the early morning traffic like the bleached-blonde in a mustard-yellow leather micro-mini skirt presently being led by a plain clothes cop through to a room at the end of the hallway. Her wobbly spiked heels clicked out an uneven beat on the beige tile floor.
Off to Naomi's right, an old man was ranting to a female police officer about teenagers tormenting his dog. "I'da shot the buggers if that gun wasn't so damned old and rusted out."
But for the clientele and the uniforms, the reception area looked like any office waiting room. There the comparison ended. You couldn't disguise the faintly sour smell of human desperation and fear in the air. As she mulled over that thought, a bray of laughter issued from across the room, where a knot of policeman were in private conversation. The laughter had held a mocking undertone, and Naomi found herself instinctively looking around for the woman in the leather mustard skirt. Not seeing her, she went back to her magazine. She had just turned to the humor page, "All in a Day's Work", when a male voice spoke her name. "Miss Waters … Naomi?"
She looked up, expecting to see a police officer standing there, but instead saw a vaguely familiar and very attractive civilian grinning down at her. He was tall, blond, wearing a dark blue suit and burgundy and cream-coloured striped tie, and could have posed for an Armani ad.
"Yes?" Naomi said, trying to place him. His grin reflected amusement, a certain sheepishness. "You don't remember me."
"I'm sorry, I...." There was something familiar in the eyes, but no, she couldn't place him.
"Reporter at large," he joked. "Eric Grant." He gave a small, mock bow, a twinkle in his blue eyes.
At what must have been her look of surprise, he laughed and rubbed a self-conscious hand over his square, beardless jaw. "Can't say I blame you. My boss said I
As he lay there on the ground, his body jerked convulsively like a live fish tossed upon a bank, and then the darkness, darker than any night, rolled over him.
Norman did not feel himself being moved, nor hear the scrape of gravel beneath his body as it was dragged away.
* * *
Earlier that evening, Naomi went shopping for a frame for Mary Rose's poem and found exactly the right one, with a narrow light wood trim. Intent on her own purchase, she didn't notice the dark-haired sales-clerk a few aisles away in the children's department, smiling at an elderly woman who was holding up a large, brown teddy bear for her approval. Neither the sales-clerk nor Naomi could know that they were fated to meet, or that Debbie Banks' life, like her own, would be changed forever because of what happened to a teenaged Native girl all those years ago. Norman Banks' wife would later wonder why she didn't feel the exact moment when her husband's life had bled out of him, and his soul departed this earth. How could she not have sensed this?
At home, Naomi hung the framed poem in her room beside the vanity mirror and stood back to admire it. She had neatly cut out Mary Rose's photo from the newspaper and fitted it in the bottom, left hand corner of the frame. Perfect.
The room seemed more hers now.
Chapter Seventeen
"Take a seat right over there, Ma'am." The heavy-set policeman with a pewter-coloured buzz cut said, gesturing to a row of forest green plastic chairs set against the wall. "I'll tell Sergeant Nelson you're here. He's with someone right now."
Naomi had been sitting in the hard-backed chair for about five minutes, by turns thumbing idly through an ancient copy of Reader's Digest she picked up off the low table in front of her, and observing the early morning traffic like the bleached-blonde in a mustard-yellow leather micro-mini skirt presently being led by a plain clothes cop through to a room at the end of the hallway. Her wobbly spiked heels clicked out an uneven beat on the beige tile floor.
Off to Naomi's right, an old man was ranting to a female police officer about teenagers tormenting his dog. "I'da shot the buggers if that gun wasn't so damned old and rusted out."
But for the clientele and the uniforms, the reception area looked like any office waiting room. There the comparison ended. You couldn't disguise the faintly sour smell of human desperation and fear in the air. As she mulled over that thought, a bray of laughter issued from across the room, where a knot of policeman were in private conversation. The laughter had held a mocking undertone, and Naomi found herself instinctively looking around for the woman in the leather mustard skirt. Not seeing her, she went back to her magazine. She had just turned to the humor page, "All in a Day's Work", when a male voice spoke her name. "Miss Waters … Naomi?"
She looked up, expecting to see a police officer standing there, but instead saw a vaguely familiar and very attractive civilian grinning down at her. He was tall, blond, wearing a dark blue suit and burgundy and cream-coloured striped tie, and could have posed for an Armani ad.
"Yes?" Naomi said, trying to place him. His grin reflected amusement, a certain sheepishness. "You don't remember me."
"I'm sorry, I...." There was something familiar in the eyes, but no, she couldn't place him.
"Reporter at large," he joked. "Eric Grant." He gave a small, mock bow, a twinkle in his blue eyes.
At what must have been her look of surprise, he laughed and rubbed a self-conscious hand over his square, beardless jaw. "Can't say I blame you. My boss said I
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