‘No access,’ he says. ‘No corroboration.’
‘Patience,’ Kimble says, turning her direct gaze on him. ‘Lizard tail, Marc.’
It’s their rule. Once they have a story by the tail they have to hold on at all costs. Lots of times the tail detaches and the lizard slips off into the dark. But sometimes, it doesn’t. So if they get a hold, they cling. They made the rule long ago and it’s a good one, most of the time.
‘It’s gross.’ His fingers tremble on the rolling paper and he makes an ugh of frustration. ‘Leaf Winham didn’t die.’
Kimble’s face goes hard as it does when she’s confused. ‘He did, Marc.’
‘He’s a virus. Every time someone watches one of those movies, he spreads a little more. We’re keeping him alive by doing this.’
Kimble nods. ‘It’s terrible,’ she says, emotionless. ‘But it’s our job to look terrible in the eye. You know that. And you owe me.’
Marc inhales. ‘I don’t know what you mean,’ he says, distant.
‘The hell you don’t.’
‘Have you heard from Margot recently?’ Marc asks, polite.
Kimble gets up and takes the burger wrappers to the trash can. In the glimpse he catches of her face he sees that she hates him. Just in this moment, though. He’s sure that it’s just in this moment.
Marc finds an old grill pit in the undergrowth and makes a fire. Kimble gives him one of her long looks. ‘You nearly dropped the ball back there, during the interview with Annie.’
‘Bad day, I guess.’
Kimble leans in close. She smells like detergent, clean hair, healthy skin. ‘You nearly lost her. Don’t mess with me, Marky Mark.’
‘I was waiting to call Silvie,’ he says. ‘I waited all day. It stole my focus.’
Kimble breathes long and slow. She’s trying to push it out with her breath – the anger.
‘And?’ she asks.
‘It’s not good.’ He is startled to realise that this is the truth. It’s just not all of it. Kimble nods. She probably knows he’s holding back but she won’t push him. She’s giving him privacy again. Or maybe Marc has exhausted her, emptied her of the power to care.
They met in Wichita, interviewing a man who had been a serial killer’s dentist. He wanted to talk about the serial killer’s teeth and his eyes, about how they looked up at the dentist from the chair, red-rimmed, over the serial killer’s pink straining cave of a mouth. About how often the serial killer visited the dentist, gums bleeding with hours of brushing – because of the stress of avoiding capture or the pleasure of killing, whatever story Marc decided on in the edit.
The dentist was small and mild. He spoke quietly and precisely, gave them answers any dentist would give. Marc started to wind up. It wasn’t worth wasting any more time on it. What had he expected from an interview with a dentist, anyway?
‘Last question.’ Marc didn’t really have another question but it’s a good rule, always, to ask more than you need. ‘You can see stress in teeth, can’t you? Grinding, clenching …’
‘Sometimes.’ The man began to shake. ‘There was nothing like that. But once there was this thing – I wondered what he had eaten.’ Marc felt the camera operator next to him tense. Sometimes Marc gets the interview so right that it feels wrong. It feels like debridingflesh, breaking bone to reveal the chest cavity, the heart where it hides like a little naked animal.
‘What did you think he had eaten?’ Marc asked.
‘During one check-up I found a thing in his teeth,’ said the dentist. ‘I thought it was tomato, then I thought it was a sliver of carrot.’
‘And?’ Marc’s hair rose slow and gentle off the back of his neck.
‘It was just a little sliver,’ the dentist said, pleading. ‘It could have been any kind of flesh.’
Marc turned to the camera operator to signal to her to get out from behind him, get coverage. She was already moving.
‘What was it, in his teeth?’ Marc kept his tone gentle.
‘He came to that appointment the day after the third woman disappeared.’ The dentist’s voice had dropped to a whisper.
‘The one he—’ Marc said. ‘And you think …’
