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“I agree with you. But none of us are going to be any good exhausted. Get some rest. We’ll reconvene in a fewhours.”
There’s no room for argument. He’s the head of this investigation and he’s giving me a lot more control and voice than a lot of detectives would. It’s up to me not to make waves or create problems by not showing him the respect he’d expect from any other member of theteam.
“The drive to Sherwood is about forty-five minutes,” Sam says. “We’ll get a few hours and then head back. By then I should be able to have some of my officers available for anything else youneed.”
“Thank you,” Garrison nods. “I appreciateit.”
They shake hands, their eyes meeting intensely in that way that law enforcement officers do when they’re in the thick of battle. It communicates things they don’t need to put into words, an understanding of what each other is going through, and a promise to stand by each other’s sides.
As we leave, I see the officer who was being held back in the parking lot at the camp soon after we arrived at the camp. His face is hollow and pale, still soaked with tears. His red eyes stare blankly into the distance as another officer walks beside him, seeming to hold him up by his shoulders as they make their way toward the back of the station.
“His child died at Camp Hollow, didn’t he?” I whisper, bobbing my head slightly toward him.
Garrison nods as he steps up beside me. “That’s Seth Parrish. His son Garrett was one of thevictims.”
We stand in silence for a moment until he’s out of sight, offering our solidarity and support even without speaking. All of the victims are tragic. All of them are painful. But there’s something especially difficult when one of our own is affected so horrifically. It puts an additional layer of harsh reality to it. I’ve heard other agents say that sometimes it’s easier to pretend that none of what we are doing is truly happening. That we’re living in a TV show and dealing with preset scenarios and manufactured characters. Almost as though what we do is for entertainment or that it plays some sort of function in greater society but isn’t actually real.
It’s a way to compartmentalize and not get too emotionally involved. Emotions are the downfall of many in this line of work. Too much or not enough and the career will eat you alive.
Pretending everything is just a script that’s playing out, a practice exercise or a performance, helps to keep emotions in check. But when the victim is a loved one, that façade shatters. You can’t pretend anymore when you know the person lying dead. When you’ve seen the countless pictures that tumble out of a father or mother’s wallet encased in plastic accordion sleeves. When you remember the day they were born, or their wedding, or their first day on the job.
All that brings it too intensely close to home for it to be anything but vivid, visceral reality. Being able to close your eyes and envision what a victim will wear lying in their casket is a stark reminder of how murder impacts lives.
“Come on,” Sam says softly, intertwining his fingers with mine and guiding me toward the exit. “Let’s go home for abit.”
He knows it’s unlikely I’ll be able to get much rest. I’ve already waded down into the depths of this case and it’s not easy to just get out of it, even for a short time.
I’m falling asleep halfway through the drive back home when my pager beeps on my hip.
“It’s Xavier,” I say. I look over at Sam. “Was he at the house when we left? Dean didn’t leave him there and we just abandoned him, didwe?”
“I don’t think he was there. But he’s a grown man, Emma. You don’t have to worry about him completely falling apart if he’s left on his own for a few hours. He’s capable of taking care ofhimself.”
“I know he’s capable of taking care of himself, but you know it’s not ideal. Especially if he isn’t expecting it,” I say.
“What’s the message?” Samasks.
Since Xavier has difficulty with the uncertainty of waiting for me to find a phone to call him, he pages me. He devised a compendium of numeric codes that can transmit a variety of messages as a supplement to the widely known codes. They can’t cover everything, but it’s enough for him to be able to quickly relay his most common messages and get answers without having to wait. Usually, I still end up having to call him to finish off the conversation, but at least this tides him over.
I decode the series of numbers he has sent. “He wants to know where we are. I’m thinking that probably means he is at the house.” I send him back the code that tells him we’ll be there soon. It takes a few seconds, then another message comes in. “He needs something. He says it’surgent.”
My heart jumps a little in my chest when I read that. I have very conflicting views on Xavier. He came into my life a few years ago when he was involved in a case I was investigating and became a completely unexpected but cherished member of my family. I never would have been able to imagine him, but now I can’t imagine life without him. He’s taught me so much and no matter how long he’s around, I still feel like he’s unexpected. I don’t know what he’s going to say or do next, which can sometimes be very disconcerting.
On one hand, he is one of the strongest, most intense, resilient, and driven people I have ever encountered. He’s brilliant, creative, and insightful almost to a fault, and no one is in his proximity for long without walking away impacted by him. What he went through during years of unjust imprisonment and fighting for his freedom would have crippled most people, but he persevered. His mind doesn’t work the same way as other people’s. He doesn’t see or feel things the way others do. But what he does see and feel makes him wise, powerful, and even dangerous in a way very few would ever understand. I admire him. There are many times when I feel like I’d be lost without him.
But on the other hand, the same things that make him so unique and interesting also make him vulnerable. He can rattle off entire plays or whole chapters of books, tell you extensive details about a far-flung variety of random topics, and teach you to see a situation in a way that you would never have considered but that changes everything. But he can’t read a map or tell directions. That element of processing is simply missing from his brain.
Xavier is capable of experiencing things with his senses that no one else can, but those very senses overwhelm him and send him into a panic. He frequently gets so wrapped up in something going on in his mind or one thing that’s happening in front of him that he forgets his need to engage with the rest of the world. Or sometimes he’ll just go blank. He’s described it as feeling like his brain is an Etch-a-Sketch and someone has just picked him up and shaken him to make it all go away. Both can lead him to do things like walk out into traffic or not get off a bus at the right stop.
Those make me worry about him all the time.
It’s easier when I know Dean is with him. But I know he’s not right now. He’s busy working on a case and was heading back to Harlan. I’m hoping Xavier still being at my house just means he decided he didn’t want to go with Dean on this case. But it could also mean Dean realized there was an element of his investigation that would be too dangerous for him to have Xavier with him.
Another few moments pass and another message appears. It’s not any of the codes we’ve worked out but a block of numbers. It means he wants to tell me something that doesn’t have a shorthand code attached to it, so he’s resorting to the direct alphanumeric translation. Meaning I have to take each of these numbers, get the letter it corresponds to, and sift out the message from there. Sounds simple enough until the numbers start getting into the double digits, and there’s the ambiguity of whether it is two single-digit numbers or one double-digit, or when, like this message, it’s a solid chunk of text.
91131521201563914141131514201511920318211438
“Son of a…” I grumble as I reach into the glove compartment for a pad of paper and a pen as well as the number to letter chart I put together after getting several of these messages and having to count my way through the alphabet. I write the code across the top of thepage.
