Chapitre 24: Turn off the Light ch.24
Peter swallows. Sure enough, the Lieutenant's cell phone lies open on the ground beside his body. He takes a few steps forward, crouches beside the body opposite Leight.
He reaches into his pocket, retrieves a pair of disposable gloves, and slips them on. Gingerly, he prods the Lieutenant's left arm, which is bent at an unnatural angle.
"It's broken," he murmurs. "That must have been the cause of the scream."
The Captain just nods.
Peter's eyes rove onward. There isn't much out of place, aside from the paleness of the skin and the skewed moustache hairs, but his stomach is still roiling, so he goes as quickly as he can.
He stops on the small butterfly perched on the Lieutenant's sternum. It's clearly dead but beautifully preserved. It has a wingspan of a little less than two and a half inches.
It's mostly brown, with two yellow patches, four squiggly white lines, and six concentric circle dots. It isn't a species Peter has ever seen before.
He looks up at Leight, whose expression is inscrutable, though there's tension in every line of his body. That's when he realizes Leight's gaze has been trained steadily on the butterfly for the last five minutes.
It's the Captain who speaks after he fixes his eyes on the side of Leight's head. "You recognize it, don't you, Leight?"
There's a knowing lilt to the question, and in that instant, Peter realizes that they know something about this that they haven't told him.
Finally, Leight looks up, locks eyes with Peter for the barest moment, then turns to face the Captain.
"Of course," he nods. "Tisiphone abeona."
He turns back to Peter. "Australian species. Rather rare."
"It's the same, isn't it, Leight?" And there's that tone again, mixed with the slightest traces of accusation.
Leight stands up. He rings his hands together, then clasps them behind his back as he walks over to the window. He pushes back the curtains and stares at the storm, which is still raging on in the purple sky.
"Leight," the Captain demands, sounding impatient and fierce, more dangerous than he has ever been before. "It's the same as Eleanor, isn't it?"
Leight is silent, guarded, impenetrable. It's as if he can't hear the Captain's words; they don't touch him, can't break through the barricade he's built around himself.
It's been weeks since Peter has seen him this shielded. He's about to intercede (he doesn't even know on whose behalf) because he really doesn't have the slightest idea who this Eleanor person is (or is it was?), but he doesn't get the chance.
Because the Captain isn't moping anymore. He's sidestepping through the grieving process, moving onto anger, which he is directing not at God or the killer but at Leight.
He's standing, now, and his fists are clenched, knuckles white, at his sides.
"You can't ignore it, Leight. It happened once, and now it's happened again. And you know it's just going to keep happening. He will keep killing, and you know who he'll target next."
There's a brief flash of lightning, and everything stops except for the steady beating of Peter's heart.
He forgets to breathe because he's too hung up on the Captain's words. He understands the implication, even if he isn't meant to, because Leight alluding to it once was enough.
Then the thunder comes, and it shakes him to his bones.
"Whom," Leight murmurs softly, mostly to himself.
"What?" the Captain snaps.
"You said, 'You know who he'll target next.' It should be, 'You know whom he'll target next.'"
"Leight," the Captain growls, "you can't ignore this."
Leight whirls around. He can't conceal the flash of anger in his eyes; for once, he doesn't try.
"Don't you dare accuse me of ignoring this, John. I will find him this time, and don't doubt that I will kill him."
It's with sick dread that Peter realizes the Captain isn't going to argue.
Ten minutes later, they're sitting in the backseat of a cab. Peter doesn't recognize the address Leight gives the driver. He doesn't understand what the Captain was talking about (except that it was clearly an old case).
He doesn't know why he feels so sick to his stomach. He doesn't know what to say to Leight.
That's precisely when Leight observes, "You want to ask me a question but you don't know how to phrase it. Or you want to ask me a lot of questions but you don't know which to ask first."
Peter nods. He's looking at Leight's profile because Leight is staring steadily at the back of the driver's headrest.
"I'll give you a hint. The question isn't 'who.'"
"It's not?"
"No, it's 'where.'"
"Then you know who did it?"
"Yes," Leight nods sharply, "but it's better if you don't."
"I don't understand," Peter whispers. Because he doesn't understand, not at all. But he wants to. And something about this is painfully untenable.
"It's better if you don't," Leight repeats. "If you want an answer, ask the right question."
"All right," Peter swallows hard because he knows when to admit defeat [even if it means perpetually not understanding something he desperately wants (needs) to understand]. "Where?"
"I'm going to find the killer, and you're going home."
"No. I'm not going home; I'm not letting you do this without me, Mal. No." He is surprised by the strength, the fierceness, the volume of his own voice.
And he repeats that syllable because it's so good (breath-taking, refreshing, surprising) to know he's capable of saying it. "No."
"You're going home," Leight responds firmly, still facing forward, "and you're going to pack—for at least two weeks. In the morning, I'll take you to the airport, and you are going to get on a plane and go somewhere—anywhere—so long as it isn't within one thousand miles of here."
"Visit your parents. Tour Europe. Climb a mountain. You choose, but don't tell the Captain or me where you're going. I will contact you as soon as it's safe for you to come home." He pauses, thinking something over.
Then he turns, making eye contact for the first time, so cold, distant, sentineled. "You are not going to have anything to do with this case."
Even though he's scared (thoroughly terrified), queasy (completely nauseated), nervous (downright overwrought), he doesn't waver, doesn't flinch, doesn't blink.
"Mal, if this case is as dangerous as you say it is, I don't want to be anywhere but by your side. It's the safest place to be."
"Oh, Peter," Leight sighs, with that sad patronizing tone. He shuts his eyes and slams his head back against the headrest.
"You're horribly mistaken. See, I'm the most dangerous thing that has ever happened to you."
"I don't care." The night is loud and bright outside the cab, and yet, the loudest noise Peter hears is the blood rushing through his veins.
"I like the danger. I love you. I won't leave—not for anything."
"You're a fool," Leight mutters, but there's no derision or judgment to the insult.
It's just a simple sentence, a statement of fact, a sad truth they can't escape.
They're quiet, each simmering in their own frustration, until the cab rolls to a stop in front of a dilapidated warehouse.
From the way the ground is shaking and lights are flashing through the windows, it's some sort of club. Through the sheets of rain, Peter can just barely make out the word "Fury" above the door.
Leight pulls out his wallet, thumbs through it, hands the driver five bills, and when the lightning illuminates the iridescent ink, it's clear that they're twenties. He then gives him their home address, with instructions to take Peter there.
Then he turns to Peter, studies him for one implacable second, and gives him a quick (and queer) kiss to the forehead.
"I'll be home by dawn," he promises.
He gets out of the car and disappears into the storm.
.
.
État de l’alimentation hebdomadaire
-- Classement
Power Stone 
-- Power
stone