The Heart of the Jungle, стр. 10
He sat on the couch, wrapped his arms around his body, and, wracked with miserable sobs, he keened his grief to the uncaring world.
As though in sympathy with the tears he cried, a heavy rain began to fall outside. As the storm raged, day passed into night. The pent-up anguish leeched away his remaining strength. He fell into a deep, exhausted slumber. Perhaps because of the release, his sleep was free, for the first time in as long as he could remember, from troubled dreams.
Chapter 3
CHRIS awoke on the couch to the sounds of morning from the world outside. Blinking bleary eyes against the bright sunlight, he rose and looked out the window.
As though in apology for the inundation of the night before, the morning sky had cleared, and a cheerful sun painted the world in a panorama of watercolor brilliance.
As he came fully awake, he remembered his introduction to Jason Kingsley, and the fury and confusion rushed back in a torrent. He quickly squelched those emotions before they overcame him. Now that he had released some of the pressure, he was much more in control of his feelings.
His eyes wandered to a sheaf of documents lying on the coffee table. Kingsley must have left them. Another reminder. He stomped over and snatched them off the glass. After compressing the pages into a tight ball, he tossed them into the trash, wishing he could just forget the whole episode. For all he knew, Kingsley was some sort of crackpot out to make a buck off of his misery---but much of what he said had resonated.
As though in defiance of the doubts swirling in his mind, he shoved the wadded papers deeper into the trash bin and walked away.
As he passed the bathroom, he paused and stared at the door. For some reason, his conviction had disappeared. He couldn't take those pills.
Not right now, anyway. He'd lost his nerve.
He turned away and wandered back into the living room. Could his whole life with Michael have been a lie? What if the things Kingsley had revealed were true? Were there answers to be had after all? And if there were, what was he going to do about it? The police weren't going to help him. He couldn't go crawling back to Jason Kingsley, not after the way he'd treated him.
He slipped into his running shoes and walked out into the crisp morning air. The world smelled fresh and young. Warbling birdsong provided a cheerful symphony to accompany him on his morning jog, and the familiarity of it, the simple joy in the melodic trilling, lifted his spirits slightly.
His regular route took him down a residential street that meandered through the neighborhood and along the edge of a bluff. Tufts of sunny yellow Scotch broom dotted the sloping hillside. As he settled into the routine of placing one foot in front of the other, clearing his mind of the turmoil became easier. Focusing only on maintaining a steady pace and measured, even breathing, he allowed the tumult to subside. He gave himself over to the beauty of the world that he had been blind to for so long. Once upon a time, the carefully tended neighborhood, with its perfectly groomed yards and the broad reach of Puget Sound sparkling in the sun, had the power to hold him spellbound on mornings such as this.
Those were freer, happier times. Now, as then, he was comforted and renewed.
Tiny finches frolicked in a courting dance through the air over a dew-dappled lawn, and the smile that came to his lips as he watched them surprised him. He hadn't smiled automatically in so long that the unfamiliar expression was disconcerting. It felt good, though, so he went with it.
Despite everything, though doubts and more unanswered questions tugged at the edges of his consciousness, he felt oddly hopeful. Why?
Where was it coming from? Was it because of the release of the night before or something else? Brianna and Michael were still missing and very likely dead; the police had still closed the investigation. He had nothing to look forward to. So what had prompted this change of mood?
Was it Kingsley?
A woman clad in a floral-print robe stood on her front porch with a steaming mug of coffee. He didn't know her name, although he had passed her a hundred times during this morning ritual. Today, she waved at him. He waved back absently and continued along.
The road turned a corner and snaked down the hillside toward the waterfront. He followed the curve. The heady rush of endorphins added their own magic to his strangely upbeat outlook. When he reached the wharf, he stopped at a small coffee shop and stood with his head down, breathing heavily. He knew the downhill jog was much easier than the return, and before the murders, he'd always taken a break before the arduous uphill climb. Lately, he had rarely indulged in that guilty pleasure. He realized as he stood before the entrance to Pearl's that he'd sorely missed it.
A tinkling bell announced his entry into the quaint coffee shop, and the earthy aroma of freshly brewed coffee made his mouth water in anticipation.
The proprietress greeted him affectionately as he approached the counter. She was eccentric, a rotund little woman with rosy cheeks and a mass of silver hair piled atop her head in a haphazard bun. She was clad in a loose khaki dress with a tribal print. About her neck hung a crude necklace constructed of bits of shell and feathers.
"Mercy alive. Just look at you. I haven't seen you in weeks." She wormed her bulk around the counter and pulled him into a crushing hug.
"Timing is perfect, kiddo. I just took some muffins out of the oven." She smiled broadly, her eyes sweeping over him.
"I think I'll just have the regular this morning, Pearl," he replied, returning her smile with warmth.
Her joy faded. "Nonsense. You're too thin."