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“Goodnight.”
“Iknow you didn’t stop to eat while you were there,”Samsays.
He sets a plate mounded with baked manicotti and garlic bread in front of me. Another plate with a salad appears to theside.
“Don’t you think this is a little much for this late?” Iask.
“No,” he answers without hesitation and walks back out of theroom.
I watch him, then turn back to my dinner.
“Alright, then,” I say. Xavier is sitting in his favorite corner of the couch, tucked beneath one of the blankets he has crocheted for us. I glance over at him. “Did you get enough to eat fordinner?”
“Yes,” hesays.
I blink. “Everybody is just full of effervescent answers thisevening.”
I eat a few bites of the salad first because it seems like the right thing to do, then start on the pasta. This is definitely a Sam creation. The sauce is delicious and the layer of cheese on top is about an inch deep. It peels away from the pasta in one thick sheet.
“Sisyphus,” Xaviersays.
“Excuseme?”
I’m not sure if I’ve been insulted or if that’s a special incantation over manicotti I haven’t been informed about. It’s possible I’ve just been sneezedat.
“The detective you had me talk to. That’s who he reminds me of. Sisyphus.”
Now that I hear it again, I realize the name sounds familiar. I think about it for asecond.
“The Greek guy,” I say. “I can’t remember which one heis.”
My mythology knowledge has gone by the wayside a bit in the more than a decade since I left college. It’s not often I apply it to my real life so I didn’t think regular brush-ups were going to be necessary. Then again, it is only in recent years that I’ve come to know the well of obscure references and trivia that is Xavier. This one, however, isn’t all that obscure. I know he’s one of the better-known legends, I just don’t have room in the front part of my brain right now to remember what hedid.
“The boulder,” Xavier says.
It’s a hint and I latch onto it.
“On the hill,” I say after a second of thought. “He was punished by Zeus and has to push a giant rock up a hill until it almost reaches the top and then it rolls back down. For the rest ofeternity.”
“That’sright.”
“It’s a pretty harsh punishment,” Isay.
“But he never stops,” Xavier says. “It’s torment. He will never accomplish what he’s trying to do, but he never stops. Every time that boulder rolls back down to the bottom of the hill, he follows it and starts pushing it again. He knows the same thing is going to happen when he gets to the top again because it does every time. He’s going to get nearly to the top and then it is going to roll back down to the bottom and he’ll have to go down and startagain.
“But he does. He perseveres. Because despite knowing that every other time he has tried, he’s failed, there’s a part of him that won’t stop. There’s a determination and drive in him that won’t let him stop. He has to keep going. He has to keep trying. No matter how many times he fails, no matter how hard it is, no matter how much the voice in the back of his head tells him to just give up because it’s never going to happen, he can’t do it. It will always be that tiny bit of him that burns to keep trying. To strive for that slim possibility that one day he willsucceed.”
“Are you talking about solving the Camp Hollow murders?” I ask. “Because he believes that Merriweather was falsely convicted and whoever the real killer is has been out this wholetime?”
“I think it’s more than that. It isn’t just about solving the case because the case exists. Something else drives him. There’s something about the deaths in 1964 and the ones now that affect him beyond just a homicide detective wanting to bring closure to a case. When I looked into his eyes, I saw the last two decades of his life spread out like a map. But they weren’t solid. They were like film, translucent and hazy around the edges. They’re layered over something else, something that is more real to him than what he actually lived. He lives this life now because it’s what he was given. But he keeps striving for what’s behind the haze. For what he believes should have beenhis.”
“What is it?” Iask.
Xavier shakes his head. “I don’t know. But it’s why he refuses to accept Merriweather being behind the first massacre. It’s not that he is looking at the facts and just saying that he doesn’t think they make sense and there’s someone else that would fit better. He can’t let himself believe it. There’s something about it that has a hold on him, and if he continues to push back against Merriweather being the actual killer, he can keep going. He doesn’t have to giveup.”
The sound of knocking makes my eyes snap to the front door.
“Who’s here this late?” Sam frowns, coming back into the room from the kitchen where he’s been doing dishes.
