Darkside_ A Novel - Belinda Bauer [89]
The killer must be local, which meant Jonas must know him. He knew everybody.
What would he look like?
If Jonas could stare into enough eyes for long enough, would he glimpse the killer looking back? Would his gaze burn like Holy Water on a demon? Would Jonas feel cold jelly fill his bones, and recoil in recognition of evil?
He didn't know.
How could he? He had no experience.
So he needed help.
A rhythmic sound and a pendulum blur in his vision brought him slowly back to the playing field and reminded him of why he had stopped here on his way to the mobile unit to report for whatever duty Marvel saw fit to assign him.
On the half-pipe ramp, Steven Lamb swooped through lazy arcs, turning smoothly at each lip, accompanied only by the hypnotic rumble of the skateboard's wheels. He had cleared the snow from the ramp with a rusted spade, which now stood upright in the resulting lumpy pile of white, with Steven's anorak slung over it.
Jonas walked across the crunchy snow, wondering whether he was following in the footsteps of the killer. Today was overcast and promised more snow - very different from the shiny morning that had greeted the horror of Yvonne Marsh.
He stopped six feet from the ramp and said, 'Hi.'
'Hi,' said Steven, his eyes always fixed on the next lip, the next turn, the next swoop. His face was serene with the rhythm of it all.
Jonas watched the boy swing back and forth with complete grace - the slight bend of the knees before each ascent the only visible effort in near-perpetual motion.
He wished he didn't have to do this.
'How are you?' he asked.
'Fine, thanks,' said Steven.
'Just thought I'd ask. After the other day.' He thought again of Steven sinking to the ground beside the stream, his dark eyes huge in his white face.
Steven rolled to the lip of the pipe, was suspended there for a brief moment, straight-legged, defying gravity ... and then flicked his board round and passed Jonas going the other way. Jonas noticed that his mouth had tightened, and that the lack of eye contact now looked more like avoidance.
'I know what happened to you, Steven,' he said quietly.
Although he'd never given any indication of it, Jonas knew that four years earlier, while trying to find the body of his missing Uncle Billy, Steven Lamb had almost died at the hands of a serial killer.
The boy didn't make the turn this time. He let his board carry him backwards down the ramp and halfway up the opposite side, before slowly putting a foot down and pushing off once more.
'Can we talk about it?'
Steven said nothing, his eyes fixed on the ramp, on the lip - but a new vertical frown-line had appeared between his brows.
'I need your help.'
Steven continued to skate, but his rhythm had gone. The skateboard barely reached the lip - or overshot and made him teeter - and his arms were working now instead of hanging loosely at his sides.
'I need to know ...' started Jonas. 'I need to know what to look for. I need to know what you see in the eyes of a killer.'
The skateboard clattered noisily and flipped over as Steven stepped off it and took a few faltering steps to stop himself falling. It slid back down the ramp towards him. He bent and picked it up angrily, and headed for his spade and anorak.
'Nothing,' he said, not looking at Jonas. He tugged the spade free of the snow, and slung it over his shoulder, yanking his anorak off the handle as he did so. Every jerky angle of his body screamed at Jonas that he wanted to be left alone.
But Jonas couldn't leave him alone. He spoke urgently to the boy. 'I know you