"Those other policemen? Do they have to stay?"

"Not if you don't want them to."

"You stay. They go. We talk. I drink."

He looked at her for a while then nodded and got up. She sank back down a few inches. The bed sounded relieved when he got up.

He came back after about half an hour. She hadn't moved.

"They've gone," he said.

"Time to hit the sauce, then, I reckon," she said. "Join me?"

"Don't see why not," he said with a smile. He had a big face. It had to be a big smile to fill that face. It was a good fit.

Chapter Thirty-Seven.

The policemen had made themselves useful. They'd taken away the dead birds, done a crappy job of cleaning up, but it was a sight better than it had been before. There was still blood and shit here and there. Enough to make sitting in the kitchen out of the question.

Coleridge took it in. He sighed. "You want to go somewhere else?"

"Through here," she said, and led him, drink in hand, into the living room. It wasn't a big room. There was a TV and an Xbox. A stack of games piled into the battered wooden unit that held the Xbox. A couple of shelves that looked straight enough, a tatty couch and a recliner in one corner, right next to the woodstove. The windows looked out into darkness where the road was. There were no street lights and hardly any passing traffic.

It was a cozy room, designed for comfort and little else. It said Beth Willis didn't give a fuck what anyone thought of her. It also said she didn't have much money, but then that could be a mistaken impression.

Coleridge's own house was full of expensive furnishings. Designer wallpaper on one wall of his living room. A great big TV mounted over the fake fireplace with expensive looking fake flames that didn't pump out any heat at all. A mirror bought at an auction in a frame that looked gold but was fake, like everything in his house. None of it was him. It was all his wife's. Her shit in his house. When they'd split up, he'd paid her for her half of the house. She said she couldn't bear to take the house, it wasn't fair. She was leaving him, after all. Amicable. All very friendly, very civilized. But he really wished she'd taken the fucking house, because every inch of it reminded him of her. No matter how much he washed the bed clothes they smelled of her. It was a woman's house. All the time he'd said he didn't care either way when she was picking things for the house. Now he was fucking stuck with it.

"I like this," he said.

"I just never get around to doing anything with it," she said, as though he'd said it was a shithole.

"Let's get started on the right foot, eh? I'm not here to intrude. I'm here because you're important to my case, true, but I'm also here because you invited me, and because, although you're a pretty ugly drunk, you're the best company I've had for years."

"Heart on sleeve time, is it?"

He took the couch. Figured the recliner was hers. He got it right.

"Why don't we start at the beginning?"

She took a breath, just a little hitch. Then she pursed her lips and obviously changed what she was going to say.

"Thank you. I'm sorry. I'm not much for company."

"I gathered. Me, neither. I'm not the best at being sociable."

"What's his name, this man?"

"Gregory Sawyer."

Beth shook her head. "Doesn't ring any bells."

"Never seen him? Given him a reading?"

She shook her head again. "Never heard of him."

Coleridge shrugged. "Doesn't mean anything. Might be a coincidence. It happens."

He said it, but he wasn't sure he believed it. Coincidence is half of what makes a detective's job work. Look for things that happened that shouldn't have. Like a man making a forty-odd mile trip to see two separate mediums.

Neither of them said anything for a time. It was comfortable. Beth drank fast, Coleridge drank slow. Coleridge stared down at the whiskey in his hand. Shook it this way and that. Wished he had some ice. He didn't really like whiskey. He liked beer.

"You want proof?" she said suddenly.

Coleridge sat back and turned his attention to Beth. He wasn't sure that he did want proof. He didn't strictly like the idea of her speaking to the dead, or whatever it was she did. He was open-minded on the subject. Things had been confusing enough lately to let a little light into his perspective on what counted as weird shit. But he could tell she wanted to say something. To show him. Fuck, he hoped she didn't show him.

He didn't want proof, but if she needed to give it...

"Not really," he said. "I'm happy to take your word for it. But then again, I'm in it up to my neck, so let's do it."

"Your partner wants his watch back."

Just straight at him, no preamble. He rocked back and spilled his drink in his lap, like he'd just taken a pretty good straight left.

"Fucking hell. Bet you're a knockout when you're itching for sex."

She smiled sadly. "It's been a long time since I've had a pulse down there. But yeah, I'm a bitch. But why fuck about, right?"

He shook his head.

"You see him?"

She nodded. She was watching him, waiting to see which way he'd go. He suddenly had the feeling that he was laid bare before her. The last time he'd felt like this was when his doctor stuck his fingers up his ass and tickled his prostate.

"How is he?"

She laughed.

"You know what I mean," he said, feeling like an idiot.

"You want to know? Really?"

He didn't, but he needed to. He needed to understand how she worked, because she was the closest thing to a chance he had at saving lives.

"Tell me."

"His face is half missing. Shotgun, I suppose?" he gulped some whiskey down and clenched his jaw tight. She obviously took it as confirmation. "I'm sorry, Coleridge. I see you were friends. I'm sorry. I can stop. God, I'm crap at this."

"No," he said, rubbing his hands over his face. "I need to know how you work. It could be important."

"Detecting?" she asked with a tentative smile.

"Sure. Like a bastard. How do you know about the watch?"

"Because he's not wearing it. He keeps pointing to his wrist when you're around. It's like mime, sometimes, with the dead. They must be frustrated, not being able to speak."

She was spot on. He didn't like it, but she'd given him proof.

"What am I supposed to do about it?"

"You know what it means?"

"Yeah," he said. "I do. But I don't know how to fix it. It ain't something I can fix."

"I can only tell you what I see. I don't have the answers any more than you do."

"Okay."

"Okay?"

"Yeah. I get it. You're the real deal. I'm a believer. You show me mine, I show you yours."

"I don't know what you mean."

"Yeah, you do," he said, staring at her hard. He wasn't about to let her off the hook. Even if it meant being a bastard. It didn't bother him, being a bastard. He didn't want to do it to her, but she had something he needed and he couldn't let her wiggle around, like she was thinking of doing. He could see it in her face.

He could back off, take it easy. He liked her. She was solid. But he didn't back off.

She shook her head at him, but he stared right back. They needed each other. Maybe he needed her more than she needed him, but he thought she was keeping secrets. No, that wasn't quite right. He fucking knew. That was more right. He couldn't play games with her, even if it drove her mad. He'd done some game-playing with women before, and that hadn't had a sweet ending. One partner was dead and his wife was fucking a painter and decorator. He knew full well where games with women went. It went downhill fast and you ended up out of pocket, living in a house full of shitty floral wallpaper.

"Your son," he said. He didn't like doing it, but he couldn't work any other way. It was all or nothing. When he hit three hundred and kept going he knew he was an all or nothing type of man. He wasn't the kind to leave leftovers.

"You bastard."

"Clean slate, Beth. You need to trust me. But I need to trust you. I need it on the table. Sharing a drink is one thing, but your life is on the line. No half-measures from me, not now, not ever. I don't work like that."

"What is this, a fucking job interview now? A psych evaluation? You going to get me to stare at pictures of butterflies, tell you I see blood?"

Coleridge could feel uncomfortable. He wasn't made of stone. But he was a long way from a fool. He knew she was rearing up at him to get him to back off. If he backed off now, he'd lose her. She was testing him just as much as he was testing her.

"His bed's always made. There's dust on shelves, but the rest of the house is clean as a whistle. Every time I've been here, he ain't here. None of the other policemen have seen him. You say you sent him away but his toothbrush is in the bathroom cabinet and it don't look like it's been used for years."

"You asshole. You went in my bathroom cabinet?"

"I was looking for tooth floss," he lied. He'd actually been hoping for some Vaseline. Fat cops and piles. It wasn't rocket science. "But that's by the by, Beth."

"You expect me to trust you?"

"Beth."

"Fuck you."

"Beth. I'm sitting here, sharing a drink. I'm in your house. I can leave anytime you like. But I can't work with you if we're not straight with each other. I don't have a partner. My boss thinks I'm a piece of shit. I ain't got no friends. I'm here to look after you, but I need you, too. You've got something, I know you do. But you need me, Beth. You know you do. Because he's not going to stop. You know that, right? Right?"

"Fuck you."

"Yeah, I know. I'm a bastard."

She was crying now and he wanted to stop, to back off, but he knew he couldn't. She'd bite him, she'd shut up shop, and she'd be as fucked as him, and maybe dead.

"It's none of your business!"

"It is now. You're my business. I'm yours. Let's get that straight. I'm not going to let you die, and you're the only one who can stop it. You know that. Tell me now, Beth, and let's move on."

"He's fucking dead, OK? Good fucking detecting. Happy? Happy, you cocksucker?"

No, he wasn't happy. He wasn't happy at all. But the way she sagged into her chair looked like defeat and that made him happier, because it wasn't defeat. It was the way a cyst looked when it popped and the poison came out. Deflated but clean. Not healed all the way but better. A damn sight better than it was.

"I ain't happy, Beth, but I'm glad you told me. Now we can start. Now we can find him. Stop him."

"I want you to leave."

"I'll leave if you want. But I want to stay. I want to save your life, Beth. Do you believe that?"

"You're a bastard, you know that?"

"I know. But life's a bastard. You want to give in now, before it's even got hard? Then you're no good to me, and you won't last the week. Get over it, Beth."

"You're so cold."

"I'm not. Because I'm sitting here watching you tear yourself up, and we don't have the time. I'm hard, Beth, but I'm not cold. Why do you think I'm still here?"

"You got what you wanted."

Coleridge shook his head slowly.

"I haven't even started," he said. He took a long gulp of his drink and realized it was all gone. He got up, the couch groaning in relief. He brought the bottle back from the kitchen and filled her glass. Passed her cigarettes and lighter and an ashtray he found under the sink.

She didn't look at him. He guessed she couldn't look at him. But that was OK. For now, it'd work.

"Now," he said. "Let's talk about the killer. Let's talk about the feathers. Let's talk about the things you didn't tell me because I'd think you were a nut. You're not a nut. We've gotten to the bottom of that."

She looked up, finally. "I...I'm tired."