"My mammy mam before Bev. Bev says there aren't any snakes at all, but
she just doesn't see them."
"And you saw the snakes the night you fell?"
"They tried to stop me from going to Darren when he cried."
"Darren was crying?"
Pleased that he hadn't corrected her about the snakes, Emma nodded. "I
heard him. Sometimes he wakes up at night, but he goes back to sleep
again after I talk to him and take him Charlie."
"Who's Charlie?"
"My dog." She held him out for Lou's inspection.
"He's very handsome," Lou said as he patted Charlie's dusty head. "Did
you take Charlie to Darren that night?"
"I was going to.- Her farce clouded as she struggled to remember. "I
kept him with me to scare the snakes and the other things away. It was
dark in the hall. It's never dark in the hall. They were there."
His fingers tightened on his pencil. "Who was there?"
"The monsters. I could hear them squishing and hissing. Darren was
crying so loud. He needed me."
"Did you go into his room, Emma?"
She shook her head. She could see herself, clearly, standing in the
shadowed hallway with the sounds of hissing and snapping all around. "At
the door, there was light under the door. The monsters had him."
"Did you see the monsters?"
"There were two monsters in Darren's room."
"Did you see their faces?"
"They don't have faces. One was holding him, holding him too tight and
making him cry hard. He called for me, but I ran. I ran away and left
Darren with the monsters. And they killed him. They killed him because
I ran away."
"No." He gathered her close, letting her weep against his chest as he
stroked her hair. "No, you ran to get help, didn't you, Emma?"
"I wanted my Dad to come."
"That was the right thing to do. They weren't monsters, Emma.
They were men, bad men. And you couldn't have stopped them."
"I promised I would take care of Darren, that I wouldn't ever let
anything happen to him."
"You tried to keep that promise. No one blames you, baby."
But he was wrong, Emma thought. She blamed herself And always would.
IT WAS NEARING MIDNIGHT when Lou got home. He'd spent hours at his desk
going over each note, every scrap of information. He'd been a cop for
too long not to know that objectivity was his best tool. But Darren
McAvoy's murder had become personal. He couldn't forget the
black-and-white photo of the boy, barely out of babyhood. The image had
imprinted itself into his brain.
He had an image of the child's bedroom as well. The blue and white
walls, the scatter of toys as yet unpacked, the little overalls neatly
folded on a rocking chair, the scuffed sneakers beneath them.
And the hypodermic, still full of phenobarbitol, a few feet away from
the crib.
They'd never had a chance to use it, Lou thought grimly. They hadn't