The Cold Road (Book 1)

Chapter Twenty-Four

Friday, 14th November, 1986.

Day Three.

Sunlight fell through the fogged glass of the trooper's car, dull from the winter. The iced roads steamed as the sun's rays slid across them and up the street. A drum beat rhythmically in James's head as he shifted, arms sliding off the steering wheel, elbow smacking the horn as his head hit the gear stick. The horn grunted shrilly as James's eyes sprang open, his right hand moving instinctively to his holster. His chest was free and he struggled up, eyes darting around the car until they settled on his gun, in its holster, on the seat next to him. With a sigh, James relaxed, his fingers unclenching as they moved up and rubbed the lump that was slowly forming on his forehead.

Once the drumbeat settled, he looked around. The sunlight had chased its way down the street, and sent the last shots of night time running for the hills. Opening the door of the car, he stumbled onto the street. The night time chill still lingering on the ground sent shivers up his back as it seeped through his pants. Wallace's house stood before him, warm and welcoming. James blinked, wiping sleep from his eyes and fog from his brain. So. He looked around again, feeling the other lump on the back of his head and the still tender wounds on his wrists. He had escaped, driven home, and finding himself unable to crawl the last few feet to a warm bed had slept in the car. It made sense.

Grabbing his holster from the passenger seat, James turned and headed to the front door. Wallace's car sat in the driveway, damp from condensation that had not had the chance to freeze. James pushed open the front door and entered, he must have arrived home shortly after Wallace.

Ten minutes later, in a change of clothes and a cup of steaming coffee in his hand, James entered the living room and headed towards the kitchen, where the smell of something burning was wafting. Wallace stood with his back to the door, knife scrapping against the burnt side of a piece of toast.

'I'd give up and start again,' said James, placing his coffee on the counter and taking a seat.

'Woah!' exclaimed Wallace, turning, the knife held up defensively before him. 'What? James?' Wallace sighed, relaxing. His eye caught sight of the butter knife and it dropped on the table with a clatter. 'What are you doing here?'

'I sleep here, remember?' said James, wrapping his hands around the mug.

'Um, yeah. Yeah you do,' said Wallace, nodding. Stooping, he picked up the knife and chucked it into the sink. The toast dropped into the bin and Wallace slid another slice into the toaster. 'I didn't expect to see you here. You weren't here when I got back.'

'Yeah.' James paused, glancing out the window to his car. 'It was an unexpected night. I fell asleep in the car.'

'Busy night?'

'Yeah,' replied James. Outside a state trooper car rolled to a stop outside the house.

'Oh, they're for me!' said Wallace, popping up his toast. Hurrying out of the kitchen, Wallace opened the front door and let an officer in. James nodded politely to the man. He had seen him around the station, they had met the first day but the name escaped him. His gaze turned to Wallace who smiled wanly at him before escorting the officer into the living room.

James followed behind, hands deep in his pocket as he watched the officer unplug the answering machine and place it into a large plastic bag.

seen him around the station but hte ned the front door and let an officer James wasn'ac'What's going on?' he asked, his voice sounding hollow in his ears.

'Detective,' the officer said with a nod. 'There's evidence on this,' he held up the bag, 'Apparently it contains information possibly incriminating Catherine White.'