anxiety and she’d be able to sleep.
It was three o’clock in the morning. Unlike normal people, who awakened from their slumber with the same slow struggle of a fat man hiking a mountain path, he jerked awake suddenly, his eyes wide and tearful in the darkness.
He’d fallen asleep that evening around eight o’clock, when the sun started to fall from the summer sky. In the light of day he’d been at peace, able to close his eyes and fall asleep under the comforting illumination.
But, as it did every night, his body betrayed him. Some horrible twist of genetics and biology caused him to need only six hours of sleep. And every day, like clockwork, he awoke before the sun rose.
He woke to darkness.
He wheezed as he stumbled through the house, turning on light switches until the rooms were bathed in brightness. Tears streaked his cheeks and he moaned, the tremors so violent they shook his body like a sapling in a thunderstorm.
He cursed his fear, wishing he could sleep during the night and awake in the morning. But he had to go to bed while the sun still shone in the sky. If he waited until darkness fell, his panic and terror would prevent him from sleeping at all.
He went to the corner of his room—the one illuminated by five lamps with 100 watt bulbs—and curled on the carpet, his face pressed into the nubby white lint. He could see the window and the blackness outside, like a dark fog that threatened to envelope him. His hand open and closed, seeking comfort in his soft teddy bear, Mr. Wiggins, that had long ago been lost.
“You don’t need this pansy toy,” his father had said as he tossed Mr. Wiggins into the barbeque grill, its flames almost licking the wooden posts of the front porch. “Teddy bears are for babies.”
He wailed and ran to his mother’s arms, but even her soft chest and gentle scent of rose petals had not comforted him.
That night, the night Mr. Wiggins was burned, had been one of the worst.
Herne stood at the window in Tucker’s office, staring at the gas station across the street. Fliers for spaghetti dinners, yard sales, and handyman services fluttered on the weathered door. Oil and antifreeze stained the cracked asphalt of the parking lot. A car drove up to the fuel pumps and then pulled away, and another rolled up in its place. Neatness and order, Herne thought. He barely heard Tucker’s words.
“He must have known Amanda,” Tucker said. “We need to check with her friends and family again.”
The police station was almost quiet. Johnson and Miller were off on patrol and no calls had come through the switchboard for almost an hour. Like many small town police departments, the building was old and worn. Long ago, during colonial days, it had served as a jail and a courthouse. Now the thin windows and walls contained one jail cell, the dispatcher’s room, the Chief of Police’s office, a small kitchen, and a large common area with two desks—one for Saxon, and one for the two officers to share. Spidery cracks etched the plaster walls, and the air in the building was tainted with the smell of mildew, as if it had once flooded and never completely dried.
Herne had spent a lot of time in different police stations. To him, they all smelled the same. Like leather and dust and sweat and fear.
But mostly fear.
Three days had passed since Amanda Todd’s murder and even the media had grown tired of hearing “No comment” from Tucker. The only call that Tuesday morning had been a tirade from the mayor, asking about progress on the case.
From Herne’s spot in Tucker’s office he could see Sheila, the dispatcher, as she sat at her steel desk. The department’s phone was in her hand, but her chubby fingers gripped the receiver lightly and her shoulders slouched in a relaxed curve. She’s talking to a friend , Herne thought. Sheila’s red hair, styled in curls that hugged her thick jowls, hid her face from Herne’s eyes. She dressed in clothing that failed to flatter her
It was three o’clock in the morning. Unlike normal people, who awakened from their slumber with the same slow struggle of a fat man hiking a mountain path, he jerked awake suddenly, his eyes wide and tearful in the darkness.
He’d fallen asleep that evening around eight o’clock, when the sun started to fall from the summer sky. In the light of day he’d been at peace, able to close his eyes and fall asleep under the comforting illumination.
But, as it did every night, his body betrayed him. Some horrible twist of genetics and biology caused him to need only six hours of sleep. And every day, like clockwork, he awoke before the sun rose.
He woke to darkness.
He wheezed as he stumbled through the house, turning on light switches until the rooms were bathed in brightness. Tears streaked his cheeks and he moaned, the tremors so violent they shook his body like a sapling in a thunderstorm.
He cursed his fear, wishing he could sleep during the night and awake in the morning. But he had to go to bed while the sun still shone in the sky. If he waited until darkness fell, his panic and terror would prevent him from sleeping at all.
He went to the corner of his room—the one illuminated by five lamps with 100 watt bulbs—and curled on the carpet, his face pressed into the nubby white lint. He could see the window and the blackness outside, like a dark fog that threatened to envelope him. His hand open and closed, seeking comfort in his soft teddy bear, Mr. Wiggins, that had long ago been lost.
“You don’t need this pansy toy,” his father had said as he tossed Mr. Wiggins into the barbeque grill, its flames almost licking the wooden posts of the front porch. “Teddy bears are for babies.”
He wailed and ran to his mother’s arms, but even her soft chest and gentle scent of rose petals had not comforted him.
That night, the night Mr. Wiggins was burned, had been one of the worst.
Herne stood at the window in Tucker’s office, staring at the gas station across the street. Fliers for spaghetti dinners, yard sales, and handyman services fluttered on the weathered door. Oil and antifreeze stained the cracked asphalt of the parking lot. A car drove up to the fuel pumps and then pulled away, and another rolled up in its place. Neatness and order, Herne thought. He barely heard Tucker’s words.
“He must have known Amanda,” Tucker said. “We need to check with her friends and family again.”
The police station was almost quiet. Johnson and Miller were off on patrol and no calls had come through the switchboard for almost an hour. Like many small town police departments, the building was old and worn. Long ago, during colonial days, it had served as a jail and a courthouse. Now the thin windows and walls contained one jail cell, the dispatcher’s room, the Chief of Police’s office, a small kitchen, and a large common area with two desks—one for Saxon, and one for the two officers to share. Spidery cracks etched the plaster walls, and the air in the building was tainted with the smell of mildew, as if it had once flooded and never completely dried.
Herne had spent a lot of time in different police stations. To him, they all smelled the same. Like leather and dust and sweat and fear.
But mostly fear.
Three days had passed since Amanda Todd’s murder and even the media had grown tired of hearing “No comment” from Tucker. The only call that Tuesday morning had been a tirade from the mayor, asking about progress on the case.
From Herne’s spot in Tucker’s office he could see Sheila, the dispatcher, as she sat at her steel desk. The department’s phone was in her hand, but her chubby fingers gripped the receiver lightly and her shoulders slouched in a relaxed curve. She’s talking to a friend , Herne thought. Sheila’s red hair, styled in curls that hugged her thick jowls, hid her face from Herne’s eyes. She dressed in clothing that failed to flatter her
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