The Heart of the Jungle, стр. 3

men walking into the ugly brick police station in downtown Seattle made an odd pair. One was the picture of virility---sixty-four years old, a shade over six feet of tennis-court litheness and shining silver hair all wrapped up in an expensive Italian suit. The other, half the age of his striking companion, seemed the older of the two. He was casually attired in blue denim, and the fraying cuffs of his black sweater were stretched out and pulled over his hands all the way to the base of his fingers.

There was still a hint of boy-next-door handsome in Christian James, but it was getting harder and harder to see. After nearly a year marked by sleepless nights and aching loneliness, the soft curves and robust glow of youthful vigor had been siphoned away and overlaid by a patina of grief. The threadbare afterimage that remained was worn and faded, not unlike a pair of jeans that had seen hard use.

He pulled up short before the glass doors, catching a glimpse of himself in the dirty panes. Remarkable green eyes, once vivid and sparkling, were dull and sunken into dark hollows. High cheekbones pressed sharply against the taut flesh of his face, and full lips that had once been given to easy smiles were turned down in the perpetual frown he had worn since that dreadful October night. He smoothed his windblown brown hair, took a deep breath, and swallowed hard, pressing trembling fists tightly against his thighs.

"I don't know if I can do this, George," he said. His voice was barely more than a hoarse whisper.

The older man placed a hand on his shoulder. "We both knew this day was coming, little dove." The nickname was one his mother had given him, and it brought a sad smile to his lips. She'd often told the tale of how a dove had perched outside her window as she labored to give birth to him. George's use of the endearment brought him some small measure of comfort and soothed his aching heart.

He blinked rapidly to dispel the tears that welled in his eyes. He focused on the warm, reassuring weight of the hand on his shoulder.

Over the years, George had been more than his attorney---he was a dear friend. Through all of Chris's blackest nights, he had been a faithful star, the single light that kept the void at bay. In this dark hour, when the threat of hopelessness seemed closer than ever, he clung fiercely to that bit of brightness.

"It just seems so final."

"They're gone. By now it's a certainty. It's been nearly a year, Chris. You must accept it. Perhaps now you can start trying to move forward and put this all behind you."

"I can't. I just can't."

"Have you contacted the counselor I referred you to?"

Chris shook his head and smiled wryly. He held out his wrists, exposing the old scars. "I've seen my share of head doctors, George."

"It's just---"

"I know. You're worried I'll have a relapse. Don't. I'm a different person than I used to be," he lied. He lowered his arms, tugging the sleeves of his sweater back over his hands to hide the scars.

"Even a normal person would have trouble getting through this without...." George frowned as he realized what he'd said.

Chris looked away in a vain attempt to hide the hurt in his eyes.

"It's okay. I know what you meant."

George sighed. "Let's get this over with. You know how much I love our visits with that pompous bastard Callahan."

CALLAHAN'S wet lips brought to mind a pair of writhing slugs as they worked over the slimy stub of an unlit cigar. It was a feat of mouth dexterity that the ferociously ugly man's speech was unaffected.

"Here's where we're at." He splayed the papers in the manila file out as though examining them. "Ten months ago, we get a call from a concerned neighbor. He's seen some suspicious activity and thinks someone should take a look. A patrol arrives and finds the front door wide open. Inside, it's a slaughterhouse. There are no bodies but enough blood to virtually guarantee whoever bled it didn't walk away. With me so far?"

Chris was white and trembling. His stomach lurched as the cloying stench of slobbered tobacco slapped him in the face for the tenth time.

Callahan's barely restrained grin indicated he was enjoying Chris's discomfort.

Even George, the very picture of human composure, seemed unsettled by the recitation.

"Good. Now, in the intervening months, we've worked this thing up, down, and sideways. Forensic analysis of the blood at the crime scene positively identified it as belonging to Michael Blake. Minor spatter on the walls was ID'd as the girl's. Seems like we've got a pair of homicides, but we've still got no bodies. We've got no murder weapon, no stray prints, no suspects, no motive... no nothing."

George took a deep breath. "Get on with it. You're suspending investigation. You're closing the case."

"This thing is nothing but a waste of resources and taxpayer dollars. Not to mention it's demoralizing to my guys, who've been busting their humps for nothing. Hell, there's no solid proof a murder was even committed."

George's eyes narrowed. "By your own admission, the amount of blood at the scene is irrefutable evidence of a homicide."

"True, but it's hard to prove without a body."

Chris leaned forward in his chair. "Do you really think they could still be alive?"

"I don't think anything," Callahan backpedaled. "All I'm trying to say is that everywhere we turn, it's a dead end." He eyed Chris with meaning. "Even if I could nail down a suspect, I'd have a hell of a time getting him convicted without a single corpse---"

"As my client has learned from your numerous attempts to incriminate him," George said.

"Speaking of which, you'd think the two of you would be glad to get rid of me." Callahan took the cigar out of his mouth, leaned on his elbows, and jabbed it in Chris's direction. "I'm still not convinced your client is innocent, but without evidence,