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He had told himself back in Burlington when he had been visiting their graves that he could live in the past or live in the present, only he couldn’t do both. Although part of him desperately wanted to.
So what’s it going to be, Amos?
He supposed all who had suffered such a loss struggled just as he did. That notion didn’t console him at all.
We all feel alone.We all feel unique in our pain.
He slid the photos back into his wallet and put it away.
It was then that he noticed the bulge in his jacket pocket.
He slowly put his hand in there and pulled out . . . a phone?
The answer hit him a second later.
Robie.
The man had slipped this phone into his jacket when he had helped Decker up in that alley. He had said he would figure out a way for them to communicate, and this must be it. He looked more closely at the device. It both looked and did not look like a typical mobile phone.
He punched in the number of his own cell phone to see if it would go through. It didn’t.
He looked down at the phone, then simply pushed the green talk button.
The phone made a small buzzing sound and then the voice came on.
“I expected you to be a little quicker on the uptake,” said Robie. “I’ve been waiting for your call for an hour.”
“I just found the phone and figured out how to work it.”
“Anything up or are you just checking in?”
“The latter. So if I push the green button you come running?”
“No. If you push theredbutton I do. But I don’t have a cape and superpowers, so don’t expect me to be there in seconds.”
“So it’s like a panic button, then?”
“And only use it when you are indeed panicked. Now if there’s nothing else, I’m going to get some shut-eye.”
“Sorry to bother you,” said Decker brusquely.
“I don’t mean to sound like an asshole, Decker. But this is a job. A critical one. We’re not here to make friends.”
“I wouldn’t have it any other way.”
“Good.”
“One more thing.”
“Yeah?”
“Thanks for saving my butt tonight.”
“You’re welcome.” Robie clicked off.
Decker stood, put the phone on the nightstand, stripped off his wet clothes, and changed into dry skivvies. He lay back on the bed, suddenly wanting to be anywhere other than here. That was surprising, shocking even, because normally he wanted to be wherever there was a crime that needed solving. And right now that was squarely in London, North Dakota.
The first victim, Irene Cramer, had a mysterious past and might not have been who everyone thought she was. She was a teacher by day, and doing something else entirely at night. She had been murdered and a postmortem performed on her body, presumably by her killer. Something had perhaps been taken from her stomach or intestines.
